SONNET. IT seem'd, fair foe, in humour like thine own, Careless, fantastic, elegant and bold--The hands of Nature, Beauty, Grace had throwu Together, all the charms our hearts that holdNature, her grand simplicity bestow'd, Beauty, thy features form'd, and lit thine eyes, Tuned thy warm voice; while still to Grace they owed The charm of movement, and the choice of size. Yet these alone had never won my heart, A heart beyond mere beauty's power to warm, They knew the bounds, whereall such power must part, And gave thee genius, as the master charm!, Illumed thy pleasing form with peerless mind, A spell, which, while it beats, this wond'ring soul must bind.



By the author of Fanny the Fair.". NOW rests the red sun, in his caves of the ocean,

Now closed every eye, but of misery and mine; While led by the moon-beam, in fondest devotion,

I dwell on her image, the flower of the Tyne. Her cheek far outrivals the rose's rich blossom,

Her eyes the bright gems of Golconda outshine, The snow-drop, and lily, would die on her bosom,

Consumed in her splendour, the flower of the Tyne. So charming each feature, so guileless her nature,

The youths fondly gaze, and pronounce her divine, So witchingly pretty, so modestly witty.--

My heart's stolen sigh is the flower of the Tyne. Her aspect so noble, yet sweetly inviting,

The Loves and the Graces her temples entwine; In manners, the saint and the syren uniting ,--

Blooms lovely Louisa, the flower of the Tyne. Tho' fair, Caledonia, the nymphs of thy mountains,

Tho' graceful and straight, as thy own silver pine, Tho' fresh as thy breezes, and pure as thy fountains,

Yet fairer to me is the flower of the Tyne.

This poor throbbing heart one whole offering I give her,

Oue temple to love be this bosom of mine, O smile on thy victim, Louisa!---for ever

I'll kneel at thy altar, thou flower of the Tyne! Banks of the Ale, October, 1818. .

G. S---T.


A Dirge, written for the 18th of June.
How stately the oak that o'ershadows the Tay,

Red is the rose, and bonny, O!
Now blasted its beauty, and left to decay,

And the wild flowers are weeping o'er Johnny, 0. How gay to the pibroch they mustered that morn,

Red is the rose, and bonny, 0!
The brave men of Athol, and heroes of Lorn,

No warrior so gallant as Johnny, 0.
The flower of Braidalbin, the pride of his clan,

Red is the rose, and bonny, O!
The Gael's purest blood in his manly breast ran,

And leel was the heart of my Johnny, 0.
But three little weeks_and I'm reft of the brave,

Red is the rose and bonny, 0!
The blaze of his glory, now hallows his grave,

And Albin is sad for my Johnny, 0.
They bid me be glad, on the day of his fame,

Red is the rose, and bonny, O!
I'm proud of his valour, and proud of his name,

But my heart is a-breaking for Johnny, 0.
Yes—proud are the trophies that blazon our hall,

Red is the rose, and honny, O!
But the sad heart must sob, and the trembling tear

fall, And I'll weep till I die, for my Johnny, 0. On each coming morn, of my country's proud day, · Red is the rose, and bonny, 0! I'll plait a fine wreath by the oak of the Tay,,,

A love-woven garland for Johnny,

Now, Athol, thy woodlands I'll traverse afar,

Réd is the rose, and bonny, 0! :
And talk to his ghost, the poor victim of war,

"Twill sweeten the rest of my Johnny, 0. October 14th, 1818.


MORNING THOUGHT. Oh the dreams of gay childhood are careless and

sweet, Where flowers and soft music and butterflies meet, Where the woods are more green, and the meadows

more fair, Than the woods or the meadows of truth ever were! But the dreams of gay childhood are nothing in sooth, When match'd with the visions of passionate youth; Where all pleasures are raptures, which nought can,

excel, Their source, the pure heaven of that eye loved so well. Then the flowers, are the lilies that bloom on that

brow, And the music, that voice, which in dreams deigns

to vow. And the bright varying blushes, so quickly that fly, All the tints of the fair, summer flutterers outvie! Oh Love! if each captive and votary of thine Has visions, as soft and as lovely as mine,.. Who shall dare to dispute, that thou know'st to repay, By the sweets of thy night, all the cares of thy day!”


THERE is a Sigh---that, half suppressid,

Seems scarce to heave the bosom fair;
It rises from the spotless breast,

The first faint dawn of tender care.
There is a sigh---so soft, so sweet, .
4. It breathes not from the lip of woe,
'Tis heard where conscious lovers meet,

Whilst yet untold, young passions glow.

[ocr errors]

There is a sigb---short, deep and strong,

That on the lip of rapture dies;
It floats mild evening's shade along,
· When meet the fond consenting eyes.
There is a sigh---that speaks regret,

Yct seems scarce conscious of its pain,
It tells of bliss remember'd yet,

Of bliss thạt ne'er must wake again.
There is a sigh---that deeply breath'd

Bespeaks the bosom's secret woe,
It says, the flowers that Love had wreath'd,

Are wither'd ne'er again to blow,
There is a sigh---that slowly swells,

Then deeply breathes its load of care,
It speaks, that in the bosom dwells,
That last worst pang, fond Love's despair.



Or a Sequel to The Invitation."
"TWAS lately, Eliza, thy breast to adorn,
I pluckt the sweet bloom from the lilac and thorn :
That amid the fair tresses those braids now confine,
A gay floral wreath I did fondly entwine;
That together o'er hills and thro' vallies we stray'd,
And their verdant profusion delighted survey'd;
While I hailed you my charmer? my heart's belov'd

My goddess and nymph of the wild sylvan scene!
Eliza, my dear, the enchantment is past!
All nature now shrinks at the autumnal blast.
The paths they are devious that lately we trod---
The grove is not fresh, nor enamellid the sod---
For Flora alas! has withdrawn her sweet sway;
And the pride of the woodlands is dying away.
. Yet fairest of women! within thee combin'd,
All the beauties of Spring and of Summer I find;


On which sweet attractions enraptured I'll dwell,
Regretless of all that now bids us farewell.
Thy breath to inhale, as I steal the fond kiss---
Ah! where is the fragrance that's sweeter than this;
The myrtle, the pink, or the soft vernal air
A may-morning breathes, must not with it compare.
Thy tresses to me more luxuriant shall seem,
Than the boughs that with nectarines lusciously teem;
And as the fresh hue of thy cheeks I admire,
Or lilies, or roses, ah can I desire!
No, Flora in vain all her treasures might spread,
To allure my fond gaze thus bewitchingly led.
Tho' Phoebus no longer his beam shall display,
Thine eyes shall emit as effulgent a ray;
And cheer'd by such splendour, I well may forego'
Every charm that awaits on the sun's fervid glow.
I own 'tis a pleasure, sequestered to rove,
And list to the chaunt that enlivens the grove;
Yet thy voice---ah! how much do its accents outvie
The music of all the wing'd songsters that fly!
Eliza my fairest! If thou art but near,
'Tis Spring, or 'tis Summer with me all the year;
If absent, all nature's attractions they fail;
And Winter's dark glooms in my bosom prevail.
Oh! then thus for ever, may fancy take wing,
And Ay from the phantoms dull seasons might bring,
And thou be my goddess, all beauteous in mien!
My angel to bless this terrestrial scene!
October 3, 1818.


Written after viewing an Execution for Murder at

Dorchester, the 27th of July, 1818.
WARN’D by the sullen knell from yon grey tower,

Whose deep vibrations spread a general gloom,
Peusive I ventured at th' appointed hour,

To view the murd'rers ignominious doom!
Great was the throng whom different motives drew

Around the soul-revolting scene of woe;---
I mark'd the wondering boy,---the maiden to0,---

And heads that show'd full many a Winter's snow!

« ElőzőTovább »