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And he the glitter of the dew
Scatters on the Rose's hue.

Bashful lo! she bends her head,
And darts a blush of deeper red!
Too well those lovely lips disclose
The triumphs of the opening Rose;
O fair! O graceful! bid them prove
As passive to the breath of love.
In tender accents, faint and low,
Well-pleased I hear the whispered "No!"
The whispered "No"-how little meant!
Sweet Falsehood that endears Consent!
For on those lovely lips the while
Dawns the soft relenting smile,

And tempts with feigned dissuasion coy
The gentle violence of Joy.


WHEN Youth his faery reign began
Ere sorrow had proclaimed me man;
While Peace the present hour beguiled,
And all the lovely Prospect smiled;
Then Mary! 'mid my lightsome glee
I heav'd the painless Sigh for thee.

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And when, along the waves of woe,
My harassed Heart was doomed to know
The frantic burst of Outrage keen,
And the slow Pang that gnaws unseen;
Then shipwrecked on Life's stormy sea
I heaved an anguished Sigh for thee!

But soon Reflection's power imprest
A stiller sadness on my breast;
And sickly Hope with waning eye
Was well content to droop and die:
I yielded to the stern decree,
Yet heaved a languid Sigh for thee!

And though in distant climes to roam,
A wanderer from my native home,
I fain would soothe the sense of Care,
And lull to sleep the Joys that were,
Thy Image may not banished be-
Still, Mary! still I sigh for thee.

June, 1794.



ONCE more, sweet Stream! with slow foot wan

dering near,

I bless thy milky waters cold and clear.

Escaped the flashing of the noontide hours,
With one fresh garland of Pierian flowers,
(Ere from thy zephyr-haunted brink I turn,)
My languid hand shall wreathe thy mossy urn.
For not through pathless grove with murmur rude
Thou soothest the sad wood-nymph, Solitude;
Nor thine unseen in cavern depths to well,
The hermit-fountain of some dripping cell!
Pride of the Vale! thy useful streams supply
The scattered cots and peaceful hamlet nigh.
The elfin tribe around thy friendly banks
With infant uproar and soul-soothing pranks,
Released from school, their little hearts at rest,
Launch paper navies on thy waveless breast.
The rustic here at eve with pensive look
Whistling lorn ditties leans upon his crook,
Or starting pauses with hope-mingled dread
To list the much-loved maid's accustomed tread:
She, vainly mindful of her dame's command,
Loiters, the long-filled pitcher in her hand.

Unboastful Stream! thy fount with pebbled falls The faded form of past delight recalls, What time the morning sun of Hope arose, And all was joy; save when another's woes A transient gloom upon my soul imprest, Like passing clouds impictured on thy breast. Life's current then ran sparkling to the noon, Or silvery stole beneath the pensive Moon: Ah! now it works rude brakes and thorns among, Or o'er the rough rock bursts and foams along!


O THOU wild Fancy, check thy wing! No more Those thin white flakes, those purple clouds explore !

Nor there with happy spirits speed thy flight
Bathed in rich amber-glowing floods of light;
Nor in yon gleam, where slow descends the day,
With western peasants hail the morning ray!
Ah! rather bid the perished pleasures move,
A shadowy train, across the soul of Love!
O'er Disappointment's wintry desert fling
Each flower that wreathed the dewy locks of

* See Note.

When blushing, like a bride, from Hope's trim


She leapt, awakened by the pattering shower.
Now sheds the sinking Sun a deeper gleam,
Aid, lovely Sorceress! aid thy Poet's dream!
With faery wand O bid the Maid arise,

Chaste Joyance dancing in her bright-blue eyes;
As erst when from the Muses' calm abode

I came, with Learning's meed not unbestowed; When as she twined a laurel round my brow, And met my kiss, and half returned my vow, O'er all my frame shot rapid my thrilled heart, And every nerve confessed the electric dart.

O dear Deceit! I see the maiden rise, Chaste Joyance dancing in her bright-blue eyes, When first the lark high soaring swells his throat, Mocks the tired eye, and scatters the loud note, I trace her footsteps on the accustomed lawn, I mark her glancing 'mid the gleams of dawn. When the bent flower beneath the night dew


And on the lake the silver lustre sleeps,

Amid the paly radiance soft and sad,

She meets my lonely path in moon-beams clad.
With her along the streamlet's brink I rove;
With her I list the warblings of the grove;
And seems in each low wind her voice to float,
Lone whispering Pity in each soothing note!

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