Thy love, thy fate, dear youth, to snare.
Must never be my happy lot;
But thou mayst grant this humble prayer,
Forget me not! forget me not!
I KNOW you false, I know you vain,
Yet still I cannot break my chain ;
Though with those lips so sweetly smiling,
Those eyes so bright and so beguiling,
On every youth by turns you smile,
And every youth by turns beguile,
Yet still enchant and still deceive me,
Do all things, fatal fair, but leave me.
ADDRESS TO A DYING FRIEND.
THERE is light on the hill, and the valley is past!
Ascend, happy pilgrim ! thy labors are o'er!
The sunshine of heaven around thee is cast,
And thy weak doubting footsteps can falter no more
THERE'S not a leaf within the bower,
There's not a bird upon the tree,
There's not a dewdrop on the flower,
But bears the impress, Lord, of Thec.
As one who, long by wasting sickness worn,
Weary has watch'd the lingering night, and heard,
Heartless, the carol of the matin bird
Salute his lonely porch, now first at morn
Goes forth, leaving his melancholy bed;
He the green slope and level meadow views,
Delightful bathed in slow ascending dews;
Or marks the clouds that o'er the mountain's head,
In varying forms, fantastic wander white;
Or turns his ear to every random song
Heard the green river's winding marge along,
The whilst each sense is steep'd in still delight:
With such delight.o'er all my heart I feel
Sweet Hope! thy fragrance pure and healing incense steal.
Wm. Lisle Bowles, 1762-1850.
THE GREENWICH PENSIONERS.
WHEN evening listened to the dripping oar,
Forgetting the loud city's ceaseless roar,
By the green banks, where Thames, with conscious pride,
Reflects that stately structure on his side,
Within those walls as their long labors close,
The wanderers of the ocean find repose,
We wore in social ease the hours away,
The passing visit of a summer's day.
THE GREENWOOD
OH! when 't is summer weather,
And the yellow bee, with fairy sound,
The waters clear is humming round,
And the cuckoo sings unseen,
And the leaves are waving green-
Oh! then 't is sweet,
In some retreat,
To hear the murmuring dove,
With those whom on earth alone we love,
And to wind through the greenwood together.
But when 'tis winter weather,
And crosses grieve,
And friends deceive,
And rain and sleet
The lattice beat,—
Oh! then 't is sweet
To sit and sing
Of the friends with whom, in the days of Spring, We roam'd through the greenwood together.
COME TO THESE SCENES OF PEACE.
COME to these scenes of peace,
Where, to rivers murmuring,
The sweet birds all the Summer sing
Where cares, and toil, and sadness cease!
Stranger, does thy heart deplore
Friends whom thou wilt see no more?
Does thy wounded spirit prove
Pangs of hopeless, sever'd love?
Thee, the stream that gushes clear-
Thee, the birds that carol near
Shall soothe, as silent thou dost lie
And dream of their wild lullaby;
Come to bless these scenes of peace,
Where cares and toil, and sadness cease.
THE CHRISTIAN'S LIGHT.
OH! what is this which shines so bright,
And in the lonely place
Hangs out his small green lamp at night,
The dewy bank to grace?
It is a glow-worm-still and pale
It shines the whole night long,
When only stars, Oh! nightingale,
Seem list'ning to thy song.
And so, amid the world's cold night,
Through good report or ill,
Shines out the humble Christian's light,
As lonely and as still.
WHOSE was that gentle voice, that whispering sweet,
Promised methought long days of bliss sincere ?
Soothing it stole on my deluded ear,
Most like soft music, that might sometimes cheat Thoughts dark and drooping! 'Twas the voice of Hope.
O TIME, who knowest a lenient hand to lay,
Softest on sorrow's wounds, and slowly thence
(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)
The faint pang stealest unperceived away:
On thee I rest my only hopes at last;
And think when thou hast dried the bitter tear,
That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear,
may look back on many a sorrow past,
And greet life's peaceful evening with a smile-
As some lone bird, at day's departing hour,
Sings in the sunshine of the transient shower,
Forgetful, though its wings be wet the while.
But ah! what ills must that poor heart endure,
Who hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure.
Wm. Lisle Bowles.
HER, by her smile, how soon the stranger knows;
How soon by his the glad discovery shows,
As to her lips she lifts the lovely boy,
What answering looks of sympathy and joy!
He walks, he speaks. In many a broken word,
His wants, his wishes, and his griefs are heard.
And ever, ever to her lap he flies,
When rosy sleep comes on with sweet surprise.
Locked in her arms, his arms across her flung
(That name most dear forever on his tonguc),
As with soft accents round her neck he clings,
And cheek to cheek, her lulling song she sings:
How blest to feel the beatings of his heart,
Breathe his sweet breath, and bliss for bliss impart :
Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove,
And, if she can, exhaust a mother's love.
Samuel Rogers, 1763-1855.
Go! you may call it madness, folly-
You shall not chase my gloom away;
There's such a charm in melancholy,
I would not if I could be gay.
Oh, if you knew the pensive pleasure
That fills my bosom when I sigh,
You would not rob me of a treasure
Monarchs are too poor to buy!
THE OLD ANCESTRAL MANSION.
Now stained with dews, with cobwebs darkly hung,
Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung;
When round on ample board, in due degree,
We sweetened every meal with social glee.
The heart's lign. laugh pursued the circling jest;
And all was sunshine in each little breast.
'Twas here we chased the slipper by the sound;
And turn'd the blindfold hero round and round.
'Twas here, at eve, we formed our fairy ring;
And Fancy fluttered on her wildest wing.
Giants and genii chained each wondering ear;
And orphan-sorrows drew the ready tear.
Oft with the babes we wandered in the wood,
Or viewed the forest-feats of Robin Hood:
Oft fancy-led, at midnight's fearful hour,
With startling step we scaled the lonely tower;
O'er infant innocence to hang and weep,
Murdered by ruffian hands, when smiling in its sleep,
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