Obrazy na stronie

Then still with bright looks bless

The gay, the cold, the free! Give smiles to those who love you less, But keep your tears for me.


WHEN twilight dews are falling soft
Upon the rosy sea, love!

I watch the star whose beam so oft
Has lighted me to thee, love!
And thou too, on that orb so clear,
Ah! dost thou gaze at even,
And think, though lost for ever here,
Thou'lt yet be mine in heaven?

There's not a garden walk I tread,

There's not a flower I see, love! But brings to mind some hope that's fled, Some joy I've lost with thee, love! And still I wish that hour was near, When, friends and foes forgiven, The pains, the ills, we've wept through here,

May turn to smiles in heaven!


YOUNG Jessica sat all the day,

In love-dreams languishingly pining, Her needle bright neglected lay, Like truant genius idly shining. Jessy, 'tis in idle hearts

That love and mischief are most nimble ;

The safest shield against the darts
Of Cupid, is Minerva's thimble.

A child who with a magnet played,

And knew its winning ways so wily, The magnet near the needle laid,

And laughing said, 'We'll steal it slyly.'

The needle, having nought to do,

Was pleased to let the magnet wheedle,

Till closer still the tempter drew,

And off at length eloped the needle.

Now, had this needle turned its eye To some gay Ridicule's construction, It ne'er had strayed from duty's tie,

Nor felt a magnet's sly seduction. Girls, would you keep tranquil hearts, Your snowy fingers must be nimble; The safest shield against the darts Of Cupid, is Minerva's thimble.

OH! SEE THOSE CHERRIES. OH! see those cherries,-though once so glowing,

They've lain too long on the sunbright wall;

And mark! already their bloom is going;

Too soon they'll wither, too soon they'll fall.

Once caught by their blushes, the light

bird flew round,

Oft on their ruby lips leaving Love's wound;

But now he passes them, all too knowing

To taste withered cherries, when fresh may be found.

Old Time thus fleetly his course is running;

If bards were not moral, how maids would go wrong!

And thus thy beauties, now sunned and sunning.

Would wither if left on the rose-tree too long.

Then Love, while thou'rt lovely, e'en I should be glad

So sweetly to save thee from ruin so


But oh, delay not-we bards are too cunning

To sigh for old beauties, when young may be had.

TO-DAY, DEAREST! IS OURS. To-DAY, dearest, is ours;

Why should Love carelessly lose it? This life shines or lours

Just as we, weak mortals, use it.

o'er sea ;

see ;

'Tis time enough, when its flowers HERE, TAKE MY HEART.

decay, To think of the thorns of Sorrow;

HERE, take my heart, 'twill be safe in

thy keeping, And Joy, if left on the stem to-day,

While I go wandering o'er land and May wither before to-morrow. Then why, dearest ! so long

Smiling or sorrowing, waking or sleepLet the sweet moments fly over ?

ing, Though now, blooming and young,

What need I care, so my heart is Thou hast me devoutly thy lover.

with thee? Yet time from both, in his silent lapse, If, in the race we are destined to run, Some treasure may steal or borrow;

love, Thy charms may be less in bloom,

They who have light hearts che perhaps,

happiest beOr I less in love to morrow.

Happier still must be they who have

none, love, And that will be my case when mine


No matter where I may now be a rover,


No matter how many bright eyes I WHEN on the lip the sigh delays, As if ’twould linger there for ever ;

Should Venus' self come and ask me to When eyes would give the world to gaze,

love her, Yet still look down, and venture

I'd tell her I could not-my heart is. never;

with thee ! When, though with fairest nymphs we There let it lie, growing fonder and rove,

fonderThere's one we dream of more than

And should Dame Fortune turn truant anyIf all this is not real love, 'Tis something wondrous like it, Why,- let her go—I've a treasure beFanny !

yond her,

As long as my heart's out at interest To think and ponder, when apart,

with thee! On all we've got to say at meeting; Anil yet when near, with heart to heart,

Sit mute, and listen to their beating : OH! CALL IT BY SOME BETTER To see but one bright object move,

Theonly moon, where stars are many-
If all this is not downright love, Oh! call it by some better name,
I prithee say what is, my Fanny ! For Friendship is too cold,

And love is now worldly flame,
When Hope foretells the brightest, best, Whose shrine must be of gold ;
Though Reason the darkest And passion, like the sun at noon,

That burns o'er all he sees, When Passion drives us to the west, Awhile as warm, will set as soon,Though prudence to the eastward Oh! call it none of these.

beckons ; When all turns round, below, above, Imagine something purer far,

And our own heads the most of any- More free from stain of clay, If this is not stark, staring love, Than Friendship, Love, or Passion are,

Then you and I are sages, Fanny. Yet human still as they :

to me,


And if thy lip for love like this No mortal word can frame, Go, ask of angels what it is, And call it by that name!

POOR wounded heart!

Poor wounded heart, farewell!
Thy hour is come,

Thy hour of rest is come;

Thou soon wilt reach thy home,
Poor wounded heart, farewell!
The pain thou'lt feel in breaking
Less bitter far will be,

Than that long, deadly course of

This life has been to theePoor breaking heart, poor breaking heart, farewell!

There-broken heart,

Poor broken heart, farewell!
The pang is o'er-

The parting pang is o'er,

Thou now wilt bleed no more, Poor broken heart, farewell! No rest for thee but dying,

Like waves whose strife is past, On death's cold shore thus early lying, Thou sleep'st in peace at lastPoor broken heart, poor broken heart,


[blocks in formation]

THE EAST INDIAN. COME May, with all thy flowers. Thy sweetly-scented thorn, Thy cooling evening showers, Thy fragrant breath at morn: When May-flies haunt the willow, When May-buds tempt the bee, Then o'er the shining billow

My love will come to me.

From Eastern Isles she's winging
Through watery wilds her way,
And on her cheek is bringing
The bright sun's orient ray;

THE PRETTY ROSE-TREE. BEING weary of love, I flew to the grove, And chose me a tree of the fairest; Saying, Pretty Rose-tree, thou my mistress shalt be,

I'll worship each bud that thou bearest.

For the hearts of this world are


And fickle the smiles we follow;

And 'tis sweet, when all their witcheries


To have a pure love to fly to .

[blocks in formation]

Nights of song and nights of splendour, | To win thy smile, I speed from shore to

Filled with joys too sweet to lastJoys that, like your star-light tender, While they shone no shadow cast; Though all other happy hours

From my fading memory fly,
Of that star-light, of those bowers,
Not a beam, a leaf, shall die!


OUR first young love resembles

That short but brilliant ray, Which smiles, and weeps, and trembles, Through April's earliest day. No, no-all life before us; Howe'er its lights may play, Can shed no lustre o'er us Like that first April ray.

Our summer sun may squander

A blaze serener, grander,

Our autumn beam may, like a dream
Of heaven, die calm away:
But no-let life before us

Bring all the light it may,
'Twill shed no lustre o'er us
Like that first trembling ray.

[blocks in formation]


While Hope's sweet voice is heard in every blast,

Still whisp'ring on, that, when some years are o'er,

One bright reward shall crown my toil at last,

Thy smile alone, thy smile alone.

Oh! place beside the transport of that hour

All earth can boast of fair, of rich, and bright,

Wealth's radiant mines, the lofty thrones of power,

Then ask where first thy lover's choice would light?

On thee alone, on thee alone.


SING to Love-for, oh, 'twas he

Who won the glorious day; Strew the wreaths of victory

Along the conq'ror's way. Yoke the Muses to his car,

Let them sing each trophy won; While his mother's joyous star Shall light the triumph on.

Hail to Love, to mighty Love,

While the hill, the dale, and grove,
Let spirits sing around;
With "mighty Love" resound;
Or, should a sigh of sorrow steal
Amid the sounds thus echoed o'er,
'Twill but teach the god to feel

His victories the more.

See his wings, like amethyst

Of sunny Ind their hue; Bright as when, by Psyche kist, They trembled through and through. Flowers spring beneath his feet;

Angel forms beside him run; While unnumbered lips repeat "Love's victory is won!"

Hail to Love, to mighty Love, &c.

« PoprzedniaDalej »