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On every grief but mine so ready
Like mine her bosom now may feel
Though maiden modesty dissemble; And now while Memory brings again The Muse which first reveal'd my pain, The' involuntary tear may tremble, And own the triumph of the strain:
So whispers Hope: by Fancy led
With stifled smiles of patient rancour,
Ah! still, though whisper'd to deceive,
Content from grief one hour to borrow!
Hang gathering clouds of future sorrow,
TO A YOUNG LADY.
WHY thus decline my troubled eyes,
My voice, in broken murmurs ending?
Yet, dawning from my looks distress'd,
Read-ah too dear! the fond confession.
In vain! what these soft tumults show,
From thee, yet new to love, is hidden;
What means the sigh, the blush unbidden.
But hope not ever thus secure
To dart thy wildly wandering glances:
O skill'd in every graceful art
That adds a polish'd charm to beauty; Be mine those pleasing cares to' impart Which best refine the gentle heart,
Be mine to teach the tender duty.
TO THE ZEPHYRS.
YE! before whose genial breath
Girt with troops of wan diseases,
Linger ye, propitious breezes ?
Hither, where my languid maid
Come with balmy spirit blowing;
Health in rosy beauty glowing,
Bright-eyed Joy to Youth allied
While with giddy gesture after Trip gay Sports of wilder glance, Tiptoe Dance,
Dimpled Smiles, and sleek-brow'd Laughter.
Joy-born Mirth shall lead the train;
Her each sprightlier Love shall follow,
All who lie
In the dimple's treacherous hollow.
So your praise my song shall tell;
Pour to you the liquid measures; Soft as when your downy wings Fan the strings,
Murmuring sweetly pensive pleasures.
Ah! no such reward ye seek;
Blushing if it meet my gazes, O'er that bosom's living snow Free to go,
Little you regard my praises.
Yet, if to my sober ear
Sound your voices sadly sighing, Where from lonely shades my grief Courts relief,
To your airy woe replying; Mindful now, in amorous play Boldly gay
As around her charms ye hover, Oh! in whisper'd sighs reveal What I feel,
What to you alone discover.
O WAVING Woods! O hills!
O springs, and warbling rills!
O far spread wilds, and sun-excluding bowers! Where, stung with anguish deep,
I wander'd oft to weep,
And waste unseen the slowly lapsing hours!
Once more from cities proud,
Soon shall I come my former paths to tread;
But not, as erst, shall I
Amid your beauties sigh,
To all but pain and hopeless sorrow dead.
Fair to my gladden'd eyes
Will every object rise,
As through your well known haunts I rove along; For I shall not deplore,
Nor teach your echoes more
Of fruitless love the melancholy song.
Sad were indeed those days
When, flying man's rude gaze,
A host of woes my sicken'd soul alarm'd;
Nor verdure-vested plains
Nor gales odārous nor bright landscapes charm'd.
Then, misery's chosen child,
I sought your loneliest wild,
Where stole the brook, scarce heard its murmurs
Sad were those days indeed!
But soon my pastoral reed,
To songs of joy awaked, ye glad shall hear :
For now the clouds are pass'd
That long my life o'ercast;
The forms are fled of anguish and of fear,