Rocks rise, and rivers roll between And thou, my Friend!† whose gentle love Oh Fame! thou goddess of my heart; But me she beckons from the earth, When I repose beneath the sod, Where once my playful footsteps trod, head. * Mary Duff. See ante, p. 262. Eddlestone, the Cambridge chorister. See ante, p. 216-7. The meed of Pity will be shed By nightly skies, and storms alone; Forget this world, my restless sprite, Turn, turn thy thoughts to Heaven : There must thou soon direct thy flight, If errors are forgiven. To bigots and to sects unknown, Bow down beneath the Almighty's Throne; To Him address thy trembling prayer: He, who is merciful and just, Will not reject a child of dust, Father of Light! to Thee I call, My soul is dark within : Thou, who canst mark the sparrow's fall, Avert the death of sin. Thou, who canst guide the wandering star, Who calm'st the elemental war, Whose mantle is yon boundless sky, My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive; 1807. TO A VAIN LADY. Ан, heedless girl! why thus disclose Why thus destroy thine own repose Oh, thou wilt weep, imprudent maid, Of those who spoke but to beguile. Vain girl! thy ling'ring woes are nigh, Dost thou repeat, in childish boast, The words man utters to deceive? While now amongst thy female peers These tales in secret silence hush, Nor make thyself the public gaze : Will not the laughing boy despise For she who takes a soft delight These amorous nothings in revealing, Must credit all we say or write, While vanity prevents concealing. Cease, if you prize your beauty's reign! One, who is thus from nature vain, I pity, but I cannot love. January 15, 1807. TO ANNE. OH, Anne! your offences to me have been grievous; But woman is made to command and deceive us I look'd in your face, and I almost forgave you. I vow'd I could ne'er for a moment respect you, I swore, in a transport of young indignation, I saw you-my anger became admiration ; And now, all my wish, all my hope, 's to regain you. --- With beauty like yours, oh, how vain the contention ! January 16, 1807. TO THE SAME. Он say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decreed Your frowns, lovely girl, are the Fates which alone As the ivy and oak, in the forest entwined, Then say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decreed, Till Fate can ordain that his bosom shall bleed, His soul, his existence, are centred in you. 1807. TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET BEGINNING, 66 6 SAD IS MY VERSE,' YOU SAY,' AND YET NO TEAR. THY verse is "sad" enough, no doubt: Yet there is one I pity more; And much, alas! I think he needs it : For he, I'm sure, will suffer sore, Who, to his own misfortune, reads it. Thy rhymes, without the aid of magic, May once be read—but never after : Yet their effect 's by no means tragic, Although by far too dull for laughter. But would you make our bosoms bleed, If March 8, 1807. ON FINDING A FAN. IN one who felt as once he felt, This might, perhaps, have fann'd the flame ; As when the ebbing flames are low, Thus has it been with passion's fires- Extinguish'd with the dying embers. The first, though not a spark survive, The last, alas! can ne'er survive; No touch can bid its warmth return. Or, if it chance to wake again, Not always doom'd its heat to smother, 1807. |