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TO THE SHADE OF ******
Nor think thy memory less I prize:
But hid my pangs from vulgar eyes.
With heart to every feeling vain :
I wept with all, yet felt no pain.
I seem to twine joy's rosy wreath :
Which only hide the woe beneath.
Although my tears in secret flow--
Where the cold streams run hid below.
IMITATED FROM THE GREEK, To the Memory of Miss Elizabeth $*****, who died 1816,
an Infant. DEAD! nay, Eliza is but gone
To better worlds on high;
Gone to enjoy, above yon spangled sky,
Supremely happy there,
Far from each earthly hope, each earthly fear, And smile while mortals struggle with our evils here. Now fell disease, now heat and cold,
Must take their leave of thee,
Whilst thou, sweet child, enraptured, there shalt see The dread Eternal, clothed in all his majesty!
And sing of racks, and chains, and woe;
With one sweet, sad, romantic throe! . To nature's rural shrine I fly,
Where roses blush adown the vale, And give-unseen by mortal eye
My harp's wild music to the gale! What varied beauties fill the glade!
What balmy treasures load the breeze!
The eye on distant foliage sees! -
Through fields of undulating grass,
And gleams like “molten looking glass." Hush-hush my harp!-more tuneful skill
Than plays thy warbling wires amongWhile nature's charms with rapture thrill
Must weave those charms in magic song.
With unmix'd pathos through the globe,
Like zephyr's sighs on nature's robe.
* * *
SYMPATHY. THE wretch, whom some proud tyrant's doom Has buried in a dungeon's gloom, Where a few glimmering rays of light Scarcely distinguish day from night, If, through his grate, a brighter beam Should for a moment chance to gleam, Will raise his drooping head and smile, And half forget his woes the while; So sorrow lifts her languid eye,
To meet the look of sympathy. Bristol.
JACOB PLAYER. TO ELIZA. ELIZA pluck'd a budding rose,
Where lay a slumbering sylph at rest, Who stirred not from his soft repose,
'Till placed upon her snowy bieast : But who could long lie slumbering there?
Did bee e'er sleep on banks of roses? It is a place more sweet, more fair,
On which this happy sylph reposes.
On fair Eliza's beauteous face:
His rose-bed's luscious resting place.
He felt in truth a world of bliss,
Alas! how vain a hope was this!
To shield him from her matchless charms!
Ambrosial sweets distilling,
Each leaf with fragrance filling
'Twas extacy too vast to bear! -
Which shower'd on her breast so fair,
Had done the mischief that she wept-
As from her heaving breast she swept The blushing leaves, whose deepened die
Their sense of such a joy betrayed ! Oh! let me for a moment lie
In Heaven-upon thy breast, sweet maid! Plymouth, August 13, 1818. ROBERT
THE REVERIE. IN the gay morn of life, when no sorrows opprest, And youth's glowing passions reigned over mv brea Oh! bright was the ideal picture I drew, It enchanted my soul with its richness of hue. My mind like a garden luxuriantly smiled, There intelligence grew in exuberance wild, Unknowing, unheeding, how useless the toil, With ardour I cultured the rich mental soil, And wrapt in delusion did vainly presume The flowerets of Fancy for ever would bloom. Buto'er the bright prospect Care's clouds closed around, And veiled all my hopes in a darkness profound; Joy yielded to anguish, and gloomy despair Assailed my sad bosom and fixed itself there. Now, Fancy no longer roves over the bower, Embellished so gaily in youth's fleeting hour; Its flowerets once blooming now withered recline, And to view them with rapture no longer is mine, For that sun which once shot forth in brilliance its ray, Has set, and the magic's all vanished away. August 10, 1818.
And wished-but what 'tis vain to tell---
For soon'it withered, drooped, and fell.
That bosom's touch-the joy of lving
I envy thee the bliss of dying".
Didst thou e'er love her unrequited ?
Or feel thy hopes for ever blighted ?
Though doomed beneath her hate to pine?-
Would, pretty flower thy fate were mine.