And when a garland for his fair The lover wreathes, were thou not there, The gift would be despis'd; For thou, of every flower, sweet Rose, That April from her green lap throws,' Art most beloved and priz'd. But swiftly, swiftly flies the hour That views thy triumph thoughtless flower, And soon thy beauties fade; Then check that youthful pride, dear Rose, Tho' Flora o'er thy cheeks has spread And fenced thee round with thorns, Fainting beneath the noon-tide beam, Thou'lt mourn the hapless doom That bared thy bosom to the Day, To wither all thy bloom. Tho' now so lovely fair to view, Ere thou can'st drink Eve's fresh'ning dew, How pale will be that cheek! Then seek, sweet rose--but ah! in vain, Unheard I urge the friendly strain--Thou diest--e'en while I speak. And thou, with youth's gay hopes elate, In yon poor flower's early fate Dear Laura see thy own The lily of that swelling breast, Those smiles, too sweet to be exprest, Will soon, too soon be flown. Let pity beaming in thine eyes O bid me cease to mourn! O give to joy the present day! While the young loves around thee playOnce fled, they ne'er return. THE COMPLAINT. FROM ROLLI. GRANT to a heart with anguish breaking, Ye woods and wilds, some short repose, Amid your silent horrors seeking Scenes congenial to its woes. The sportive dance, the sprightly measure I sicken at the sight of pleasure, Tell me, ye shades, if here retiring For her, who wanders far from me. How oft, beneath yon bower of roses, And sips the cowslip's honied dew, Her snowy breast with rapture heaving In murmuring sounds her love exprest. But swiftly fly the hours of pleasure, O, tell me then, dear shades, if ever Our fond hearts again shall meet ?— Echo seems to answer, "Never!" Shrouded in her cool retreat. I hear a gentle murmur dying On the woodbine-scented gale-→→ Is it Laura softly sighing, "Haste my quick return to hail?" No, 'twas yon rill o'er pebbles straying, Murmuring in pity of my pain, On whose breast the moonbeam playing Points where it steals across the plain. May Love, sweet maid, thy breast inspiring, Ere my heart with madness firing But haste, or vain were thy returning, Or drop a tear with anguish burning THE RIVAL. FROM FAUSTINA MARATTI. Too beauteous Rival, whose enticing charms Once to my heart's sole darling seem'd so fair, That oft he praises still thy ivory arms, Thy ruby lips, blue eyes, and auburn hair; Say, when he heard thy tongue's seducing strain, Stood he e'er silent, or with scorn replied? Or turn'd with alter'd brow of cold disdain From thy soft smiles, as now from mine, aside? |