Lines

TO SIR ROBERT KER PORTER, KNIGHT OF THE IMPERIAL ORDER OF ST. JOACHIM,

Upon his approaching Nuptials with the Princess Shebatoff.

To save the credit of the dame, Poets and painters all agree That Mistress Fortune cannot see, And on her bandage cast the blame;

When honours on th’ unworthy wait, When riches to the wealthy flow, When high desert, oppress’d by woe, Is left to struggle on with Fate.

But, Porter! when on thee she smil’d, The fillet from her eyes she mov’d, To view the merit all approv’d— A mind inform’d, a heart unsoil’d.

She saw thy virtues bright appear; A son that mothers seldom know, A brother with affection’s glow, The soldier brave, the friend sincere.

With honours then thy name she grac’d, And call’d on Love to bless thy arms With princely rank, with Virtue’s charms, And all the pow’rs of wit and taste.

Sir R.K. Porter was attached to the staff in the late campaign in Spain, and was in nearly every engagement with the enemy.

THE FOLLOWING LINES IN FRENCH,

Are inscribed upon the Pedestal of a Statue of Cupid,

IN A GARDEN AT UTRECHT.

ORIGINAL.

N’offrant qu’un cœur à la Beauté, Nud comme la Verité, Sans armes comme l’Innocence, Sans aîles comme la Constance, Tel fut l’Amour dans le siecle d’or, On ne le trouve plus, quoiqu’on le cherche encore.

TRANSLATION.

To Beauty give your heart, your sighs, No other off’ring will she prize; As Truth should unadorn’d appear, Behold! the god is naked here! Like Innocence, he has no arms But those of sweet, of native, charms; No wish or pow’r has he to fly, Like thy pure spirit, Constancy! Such in the golden age was Love; But now, oh! whither does he rove?

THE RHINGAU SONG.

This is the favourite Song with the Inhabitants of the vine-covered Region of the Rhingau, an extensive District along the Banks of the Rhine, where the finest Wines are produced.

ORIGINAL.

Bekrantzt mit laub den liebe vollen becher, Und trinkt ihn frölich leer; In Gauz Europa ihr herren zecher, Ist solch, ein wein micht mehr.

Ihn bringt das vaterland aus seiner fulle, Wie wär er sonst so gut? Wie wär er sonst so edel, stille, Und doch voll kraft und muth?

Am Rhein, am Rhein, da wachsen unsre reben: Gesegnet sey der Rhein! Da wachsen sie am ufer hin, und geben Uns diesen labe wein.

So trinkt ihn dann, und lasst uns alle wege Uns freun, und frölich seyn; Und wüsten wir, wo jemand traurig läge, Wir gaben ihm den wein.

TRANSLATION.

With wine-leaves crown the jovial cup, For, search all Europe round, You’ll say, as pleas’d you drink it up, Such wine was never found. Such wine, &c.

Our fathers’ land this vine supplies; What soil can e’er produce But this, tho’ warm’d with genial skies, Such mild, such gen’rous juice? Such mild, &c.

Then shall the Rhine our smiles receive, For on its banks alone Can e’er be found a wine to give The soul its proper tone. The soul, &c.

Come, put the jovial cup around, Our joys it will enhance, If any one is mournful found, One sip shall make him dance. One sip, &c.

LINES TO HEALTH,

Upon the Recovery of a Friend from a dangerous Illness.

Sweet guardian of the rosy cheek! Whene’er to thee I raise my hands Upon the mountain’s breezy peak, Or on the yellow winding sands,

If thou hast deign’d, by Pity mov’d, This fev’rish phantom to prolong, I’ve touch’d my lute, for ever lov’d, And bless’d thee with its earliest song!

And oh! if in thy gentle ear Its simple notes have sounded sweet, May the soft breeze, to thee so dear, Now bear them to thy rose-wreath’d seat!

For thou hast dried the dew of grief, And Friendship feels new ecstacy: To Pollio thou hast stretch’d relief, And, raising him, hast cherish’d me.

So, whilst some treasur’d plant receives Th’ admiring florist’s partial show’r, The drops that tremble from its leaves Oft feed some near uncultur’d flow’r.

For late connubial Fondness hung Mute o’er the couch where Pollio lay; Love, Hope, and Sorrow, fixed her tongue, Thro’ sable night till morning grey.

There, too, by drooping Pollio’s side, Stood Modesty, a mourner meek, Whilst Genius, mov’d by grief and pride, Increas’d the blush which grac’d her cheek;

For much the maiden he reprov’d For having spread her veil of snow Upon the mind he form’d and lov’d, Till she was seen to mourn it too.

O Health! when thou art fled, how vain The witchery of earth and skies, Love’s look, or music’s sweetest strain, Or Ocean’s softest lullabies!

Oh! ever hover near his bow’r, There let thy fav’rite sylphs repair; Fence it with ev’ry sweet-lipp’d flow’r, That Sickness find no entrance there.

So shall his lyre, untouch’d so long, The tone with which it charm’d regain; Sweet spirit! thou shall teach his song, With mine, to breathe the grateful strain.