I'll ask him where's the veil of sleep That used to shade thy looks of light; And why those eyes their vigil keep, When other suns are sunk in night. And I will say-her angel breast Has never throbb'd with guilty sting; Her bosom is the sweetest nest Where Slumber could repose his wing! And I will say her cheeks of flame, Which glow like roses in the sun, Have never felt a blush of shame, Except for what her eyes have done! Then tell me, why, thou child of air! Does Slumber from her eyelids rove? What is her heart's impassioned care?— Perhaps, oh, sylph! perhaps 't is love! NONSENSE. GOOD reader! if you e'er have seen, When Phoebus hastens to his pillow, The mermaids, with their tresses green, Dancing upon the western billow: If you have seen, at twilight dim, When the lone spirit's vesper hymn Floats wild along the winding shore : If you have seen, through mist of eve, The fairy train their ringlets weave, Glancing along the spangled green : If you have seen all this, and more, God bless me! what a deal you've seen! TO JULIA. ON HER BIRTH-DAY. WHEN Time was entwining the garland of years, And long may this garland be sweet to the eye, ELEGIAC STANZAS.' How sweetly could I lay my head Within the cold grave's silent breast; Where Sorrow's tears no more are shed, No more the ills of life molest. For, ah! my heart, how very soon The glittering dreams of youth are past! And, long before it reach its noon, The sun of life is overcast. 1 This poem, and some others of the same pensive cast, we may suppose, were the result of the few melancholy moments which a life so short and so pleasant as that of the author could have allowed.-E. TO ROSA. A far conserva, e cumulo d' amanti.-Past. Fid. AND are you then a thing of art, And do you, like the dotard's fire, By trifling impotent with many? Do you thus seek to flirt a number Tell me at once if this be true, And I shall calin my jealous breast; Shall learn to join the dangling crew, And share your simpers with the rest. But if your heart be not so free,— Oh! if another share that heart, Tell not the damning tale to me, But mingle mercy with your art I'd rather think you black as hell, Than find you to be all divine, And know that heart could love so well, Yet know that heart would not be mine! LOUD sung the wind in the ruins above, Which murmur'd the warnings of time o'er our head; While fearless we offer'd devotions to Love, The rude rock our pillow, the rushes our bed. Damp was the chill of the wintry air, But it made us cling closer, and warmly unite; Dread was the lightning, and horrid its glare, But it show'd me my Julia in languid delight. To my bosom she nestled, and felt not a fear, Though the shower did beat, and the tempest dia frown: Her sighs were as sweet, and her murmurs as dear, As if she lay lull'd on a pillow of down! SONG. JESSY on a bank was sleeping, A flower beneath her bosom lay; Love, upon her slumber creeping, Stole the flower and flew away! Pity, then, poor Jessy's ruin, Who, becalm'd by Slumber's wing, Never felt what Love was doingNever dream'd of such a thing. THE BALLAD.' THOU hast sent me a flowery band, And told me 't was fresh from the field; That the leaves were untouch'd by the hand, And the purest of odours would yield. And indeed it was fragrant and fair; Then take it, and let it entwine Thy tresses, so flowing and bright; And each little flow'ret will shine More rich than a gem to my sight. THY TO A LADY. ON HER SINGING. song has taught my heart to feel Those soothing thoughts of heavenly love, Which o'er the sainted spirits steal When list'ning to the spheres above! When, tired of life and misery, I wish to sigh my latest breath, Oh, Emma! I will fly to thee, And thou shalt sing me into death! And if along thy lip and cheek That smile of heavenly softness play, Which,-ah! forgive a mind that's weak,So oft has stolen my mind away; Thou'lt seem an angel of the sky, That comes to charm me into bliss: I'll gaze and die-who would not die, If death were half so sweet as this? A DREAM. I THOUGHT this heart consuming lay I thought he stole thy heart away, I saw thy heart begin to melt, WRITTEN IN A COMMON-PLACE BOOK, CALLED "THE BOOK OF FOLLIES;" In which every one that opened it should contribute something. TO THE BOOK OF FOLLIES. THIS tribute 's from a wretched elf, WRITTEN IN THE SAME. TO THE PRETTY LITTLE MRS. IMPROMPTU. Magis venustatem an brevitatem mireris incertum est. Macrob. Sat. lib. ii. cap. 2. THIS journal of folly 's an emblem of me; But kiss me, kiss me while I die, THE TEAR. ON beds of snow the moonbeam slept, A warm tear gush'd-the wintry air ΤΟ In bona cur quisquam tertius ista venit ?- Ovid So! Rosa turns her back on me, Thou walking monument! for thee; Tells only to the reading eye, And all the worms of black reflection! And thou art Rosa's dear elect, And thou hast won the lovely trifle; And I must bear repulse, neglect, And I must all my anguish stifle : While thou for ever linger'st nigh, Scowling, muttering, gloating, mummning Like some sharp, busy, fretful fly, About a twinkling taper humming TO JULIA WEEPING. OH! if your tears are given to care, SONG. DEAR! in pity do not speak; In the flushing of your cheek, You love, you live for only me! Beam, yet beam that killing eve, Bid me expire in luscious pain; SONG. HAVE you not seen the timid tear Steal trembling from mine eye Have you not mark'd the flush of fear, Or caught the murmur'd sigh? And can you think my love is chill, Nor fix'd on you alone? And can you rend, by doubting still, To you my soul's affections move One long, long thought of you. If still my truth you'll try; THE SHIELD.' OH! did you not hear a voice of death? And did you not mark the paly form Which rode on the silver mist of the heath, And sung a ghostly dirge in the storm? Was it a wailing bird of the gloom, Which shrieks on the house of woe all night? Or a shivering fiend that flew to a tomb, To howl and to feed till the glance of light? "T was not the death-bird's cry from the wood, Nor shivering fiend that hung in the blast; 'Twas the shade of Helderic-man of bloodIt screams for the guilt of days that are past! See how the red, red lightning strays, And scares the gliding ghosts of the heath! Where hangs the shield of this son of death! Oft by that yew, on the blasted field, Demons dance to the red moon's light; While the damp boughs creak, and the swinging shield Sings to the raving spirit of night! TO MRS. YES, Heaven can witness how I strove 1 This poem is perfectly in the taste of the present "his nam plebecula gaudet."-E. Such was my love, and many a time, Is murmur'd out in sighs for thee!' 1 This irregular recurrence of the rhymes is adopted from the light poetry of the French, and is, I think, particularly suited to express the varieties of feeling. In gentler emotions, the verses may flow periodic and regular; and in the day-transition to violent passion, can assume all the animated abruptness of blank verse. Besides, by dispensing with the ELEGIAC STANZAS, SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY JULIA ON THE THOUGH Sorrow long has worn my heart; Of many a link by nature tied; I still had hopes-for hope will stay I hoped that, after all its strife, My weary heart at length should rest, And, fainting from the waves of life, Find harbour in a brother's breast. That brother's breast was warm with truth, He should have stay'd, have linger'd here, He should have chased each bitter tear, And not have caused those tears to flow. We saw his youthful soul expand In blooms of genius, nursed by taste; While Science, with a fostering hand, Upon his brow her chaplet placed. We saw his gradual opening mind Enrich'd by all the graces dear; Such was the youth we loved so well; Twined with my very heart he grew; And by that fate which breaks the chain, The heart is almost broken too! For your dear little lips, to their destiny true, And, to put me in mind of what I ought to do, And then you were darting from eyelids so sly,Half open, half shutting, such tremulous light: Let them say what they will, I could read in your eye More comical things than I ever shall write. And oft, as we mingled our legs and our feet, At length when arrived, at our supper we sat, I heard with a sigh, which had something of pain, That perhaps our last moment of meeting was that. And Fanny should go back to Timmol again. Yet I swore not that I was in love with you Fanny, Oh, no! for I felt it could never be true; I but said—what I've said very often to manyThere's few I would rather be kissing than you. Then first did I learn that you once had believed again. But you told me that passion a moment amused, And still I entreated, and still you denied, Till I almost was made to believe you sincere; Though I found that, in bidding me leave you, you sigh'd, And when you repulsed me, 't was done with a tear. In vain did I whisper, "There's nobody nigh;" more. Was I right?-oh! I cannot believe I was wrong. A NIGHT THOUGHT. How oft a cloud with envious veil, Obscures your bashful light, Which seems so modestly to steal Along the waste of night! |