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“Thou yet shalt know how sweet, how dear,
To gaze on listening beauty's eye;
To ask—and pause in hope and fear
Till she reply.
“A nobler flame shall warm thy breast,
A brighter maiden faithful prove ;
Thy youth, thine age shall yet be bless'd
In woman's love.
“Whate'er thy lot, whoe'er thou be,
Confess thy folly, kiss the rod,
And in thy chastening sorrows see
The hand of God.
“A bruised reed he will not break;
Afflictions all his children feel;
He wounds them for his mercy's sake,
He wounds to heal.
“Humbled beneath his mighty hand,
Prostrate his Providence adore :
'Tis done : Arise! HE bids thee stand,
To fall no more.
“Now, traveller in the vale of tears,
To realms of everlasting light,
Through Time's dark wilderness of years,
Pursue thy flight.
“There is a calm for those who weep,
A rest for weary pilgrims found;
And while the mouldering ashes sleep
Low in the ground,
“The soul, of origin divine,
God's glorious image, freed from clay,
In Heaven's eternal sphere shall shine
A star of day.
“The sun is but a spark of fire,
A transient meteor in the sky;
The soul, immortal as its sire,
SHALL NEVER DIE,”
At fond sixteen my roving heart
Was pierced by Love's delightful dart:
Keen transport throbb'd through every vein.
I never felt so sweet a pain!
Where circling woods embower'd the glade,
I met the dear, romantic maid :
I stole her hand—it shrunk—but no,
I would not let my captive go.
With all the fervency of youth,
While passion told the tale of truth,
I mark'd my Hannah's downcast eye—
'Twas kind, but beautifully shy.
Not with a warmer, purer ray,
The sun, enamour'd, wooes young May;
Nor May, with softer maiden grace,
Turns from the sun her blushing face.
But swifter than the frighted dove
Fled the gay morning of my love ;
Ah! that so bright a morn, so soon, o
Should vanish in so dark a noon.
The angel of Affliction rose,
And in his grasp a thousand woes ;
He pour'd his vial on my head,
And all the heaven of rapture fled.
Yet, in the glory of my pride,
I stood, and all his wrath defied ;
I stood, though whirlwinds shook my brain,
And lightnings cleft my soul in twain.
I shunn'd my nymph; and knew not why
I durst not meet her gentle eye ;
I shunn'd her, for I could not bear
To marry her to my despair.
Yet, sick at heart with hope delay'd,
Oft the dear image of that maid
Glanced, like the rainbow, o'er my mind,
And promised happiness behind.
The storm blew o'er, and in my breast The halcyon Peace rebuilt her nest: The storm blew o'er, and clear and mild The sea of Youth and Pleasure smiled.
'Twas on the merry morn of May,
To Hannah's cot I took my way:
My eager hopes were on the wing,
Like swallows sporting in the Spring.
Then, as I climb'd the mountains o'er,
I lived my wooing days once more ;
And fancy sketch'd my married lot,
My wife, my children, and my cot.
I saw the village steeple rise—
My soul sprang, sparkling, in my eyes :
The rural bells rang sweet and clear,
My fond heart listen’d in mine ear.
There is a grief that cannot feel,
It leaves a wound that will not heal:
My heart grew cold—it felt not then :
When shall it cease to feel again?
THERE is a flower, a little flower, With silver crest and golden eye, That welcomes every changing hour, And weathers every sky.
The prouder beauties of the field
In gay but quick succession shine,
Race after race their honours yield,
They flourish and decline.
But this small flower, to Nature dear,
While moons and stars their courses run,
Wreathes the whole circle of the year,
Companion of the sun.
It smiles upon the lap of May,
To sultry August spreads its charms, -
Lights pale October on its way,
And twines December's arms.
The purple heath and golden broom
On moory mountains catch the gale,
O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume,
The violet in the vale.
But this bold floweret climbs the hill,
Hides in the forest, haunts the glen,
Plays on the margin of the rill,
Peeps round the fox's den.
Within the garden's cultured round
It shares the sweet carnation's bed;
And blooms on consecrated ground
In honour of the dead.
The lambkin crops its crimson gem,
The wild bee murmurs on its breast,
The blue-fly bends its pensile stem,
Light o'er the skylark's nest.
"Tis Flora's page ; in every place,
In every season fresh and fair,
It opens with perennial grace,
And blossoms everywhere. Wol. II.—M
On waste and woodland, rock and plain,
Its humble buds unheeded rise ;
The rose has but a summer reign,
The daisy never dies.
WANToN drole, whose harmless play
Beguiles the rustic's closing day,
When drawn the evening fire about,
Sit aged crone and thoughtless lout,
And child upon his three-foot stool,
Waiting till his supper cool;
And maid, whose cheek outblooms the rose,
As bright the blazing sagot glows,
Who, bending to the friendly light,
Plies her task with busy sleight:
Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces
Thus circled round with merry faces.
Backward coil'd, and crouching low,
With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe,
The housewife's spindle whirling round,
Or thread, or straw, that on the ground
Its shadow throws, by urchin sly
Held out to lure the roving eye;
Then, onward stealing, fiercely spring
Upon the futile, faithless thing.
Now, wheeling round, with bootless skill,
Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still,
As oft beyond thy curving side
Its jetty tip is seen to glide;
Till, from thy centre starting far,
Thou sidelong rear'st, with tail in air
Erected stiff, and gait awry,
Like madam in her tantrums high;