Графични страници
PDF файл

O! thrice more enchanting to view

Is the eye of my sweet little Anne. Can aught like the morning delight,

When it dawns towards peaceable day? Or bewitch like the planet of night, When she steals in good humour away

? Is there aught like the sweetness of eve,

When serene, as when nature began, The soft sun takes his mellow last leave ?

Yes; the smile of my sweet little Anne. Can aught more delicious be nam'd

Than the exquisite juice of the pine ? More inviting can aught be proclaim'd

Than the elegant branch of the vine ? Is there aught can in flavour exceed

Ev'ry beverage precious to man? O yes; these are tasteless indeed,

To the kiss of my sweet little Anne. Thrice more than the sun-setting hour, Or the dawn of the morning

benign, More delightful than spring's Tweetelt flow'r,

Or the mirth-making juice of the vine : More serene than the gems of the sky,

And more soft than the down of the swan, Is the cheek, is the lip, is the

Is the smile of my sweet little Anne.



Re-echo to yon falling stream ? Mark

ye its bare and crumbling walls, Where slowly fades the finking beam? There, oft, when Eve, in silent trance,

Hears the lorn red-breast's plaintive moan, Time, casting round a cautious glance,

Heaves from its base some mould'ring stone.

There, though, in Time's departed day,

War wav'd his glittring banners high,
Though many a minstrel pour'd the lay,
And many a beauty tranc'd the

Yet never ’midft the gorgeous scene,

'Midst the proud feasts of fplendid pow'r,
Shone on the pile a beam serene,

So bright as gilds its falling hour.
Oh! thus, when Life's gay scenes shall fade,,

And Pleasure lose its wonted bloom,
When creeping Age shall bear my head,

And point to me the filent tomb,
Then may Religion's hallow'd flame,

Shed on my mind its mildest ray;
And bid it seek, in purer

One bright Eternity of Day!



HILD of the wintry hour! ah! doom'd to trust

First off'ring of the year,

And harbinger of spring!
Cradled in friendly greens, how pensive droops
Thy nodding head! while in thy bashful eye,

As mournful of thy fate,

Hangs sad a pearly tear,
Companion of Adversity! like thee,
To dangers rough consign'd, the new-dropt lamb,

With unftain'd fleece and soft,

Presses thy verdant bank.
Alas! in this bad world, nor Innocence
Secures from biting Slander's pois’nous tooth,

Nor Gentleness itself,
Her virgin sister meek.

The temper mild, that knows not how to frown,
Nor of harsh rule the sceptre how to wield,

Is form'd to fink before

The boilt'rous passions' rage,
Alas! like thee, poor injur'd Flavia bloom’d,
The sweetest bud of unsuspicious youth!

Like thee all purity,

Like thee, to storms consign'd. But, ah! she felt the rude unpitying breath Of Malice, keener than the wintry winds;

And shrunk beneath the blast

That never, never spares.
Poor early victim of its pow'r, she sunk
Pity'd, believ'd, and mourn'd, alas ! too late;

Chill'd by the icy touch,

And early foot of Death.
Oft as thy chaste, thy unafiuming face
Shall deck the morning of the nascent year,

This wounded breast shall heave

of cureless grief:
When painful Mem’ry tells how soon she fell,
And hapless pass’d, like thee, fair spotless flow'r !

Her little life, forlorn,
Amid the wilds of fate.



AY the smooth hours, that form Matilda's year,


In kind atonement of relenting fate,
Some wish accomplifnid on each minute wait!
And as her eyes these circling leaves survey,
To note the progress of each blissful day;
E'en while she fears that bliss too great to lafi,
Still may the prefent triumph o'er the past.
Happy the past, the future yet more bleft,
To-morrow ftill victorious o'er the rest!


OOR being! wherefore doft thou fly,

Why seek to shun my gazing eye,
And palpitate with fear?
Indulge a passing trav’ller's sight,
And leap not on in yain affright;

No cruel foe is here.
I would but pause awhile, to view
Thy dappled coat of many a hue ;

Thy rapid bound survey;
And see how well thy limbs can glide
Along the sedge-crown'd streamlet's tide,

Then journey on my way. No savage fage am I, whose pow'r Shall tear thee from thy rush-wove bow'r,

To feel th' unsparing knife;
No barb'rous schemes this hand shall try,
Nor, to prolong thy death, would I

Prolong thy little life.
Ah! let not him, whose wanton skill
Delights the mangled frog to kill,

The wreath of praise attain !-
Philosophy abhors the heart
That prostitutes her sacred art,

To give one being pain.




Wish I was where Anna lies;

For I am sick of ling’ring here, And ev'ry hour Affection cries,

Go, and partake her humble bier. I wish I could! For when she dy'd

I lost my all; and life has provid Since that sad hour a dreary void,

A waste unlovely, and unlov’d.

But who, when I am turn’d to clay,

Shall duly to her grave repair, And pluck the ragged moss away,

And weeds that have no “ business there?" And who, with pious hand, shall bring

The flow'rs The cherish'd, snow-drops cold, And vi'lets that unheeded spring,

To scatter o'er her hallow'd mould ? And who, while mem'ry loves to dwell Upon her name, for ever

dear, Shall feel his heart with passion swell,

And pour the bitter, bitter tear? I did it; and would fate allow,

Should visit ftill, should still deplore-
But health and strength have left me now,

And I, alas ! can weep no more,
Take then, sweet maid ! this fimple strair,

The last I offer at thy shrine ;
Thy grave must then undeck'd remain,

And all thy mem'ry fade with mine.
And can thy soft persuasive look,

Thy voice, that might with music vie, Thy air, that ev'ry gazer took,

Thy matchless eloquence of eye, Thy spirits, frolickfome, as good,

Thy courage, by no ills dismay'd, Thy patience, by no wrongs subdu'd,

Thy gay good humour-Can they “ fade ?"

« ПредишнаНапред »