Ah! not from age, but woe that rends his breast.
And oft I've heard him tell a tale of woe,
That drew the tear from Pity's quivering eye;
Of earlier years, his wife, his only child,
His riches lost, and his o'erclouded joy.
For oh! he liv'd in wealth, and peace awhile,
Blest with a wife, and child he dearly lov'd;
Both fair and beautiful as beams of heaven,
Who all his kindness, and affection prov'd.
Yes, bless'd were they-till a seducer came,
And lur'd his only child from virtue's ways;
Then fled and left her, and, alas! she plung'd
Into yon stream, and clos'd her hapless days.
The mother griev'd in sadness for her child,
And sunk in sorrow to the noiseless tomb;
And left alone, the man of sorrows b'hind,
Enshrouded deep in melancholy gloom.
And now he sits and thinks of other days,
And weeps o'er thoughts that cross his troubled breast;
And oft he's seen at midnight hour to roam,
And sigh sad music o'er their voiceless rest.
Stript of life's comforts, by a miser's hand,
He weeps, and bids their deathless spirits come;
Points to his breast-and bids death's arrows pierce,
That he may fly, to his long-wish'd-for home.
O Love thou art a silly thing,
To lead our hearts astray;
To bear us on thy downy wing,
Up life's uneven way,
And cheer us with thy sunny ray ;
Upborne we hear thee sweetly sing,
While odours all around you fling,
Our fond hearts to betray.
We distant wish to rove;
The bands round us we feel, and see
The net thy hands have wove;
And struggling to be free from Love, The ravel'd maze we cannot flee; Forc'd votaries now, we bow to thee Content within thy grove,
But oh! we feel the gleam
Of fortune's summer ray;
Changing to winter's stream
Swelling with foam and spray,
That rolls our joys away;
Now sweepy whirlwinds scream,
And clouds enwrap Love's beam,
And tyrant Woe bears sway.
Or on the rocky height
Of Pleasure's dizzy top, In sportive gladness light,
Awhile with thee we stop;
Till giddy as the spinning top,
We fall, and for the flight,
Pay dear with wounds not slight,
Or death as down we drop.
LINES ON A BEAUTIFUL LADY.
SHE needs no tongue, her dark eye speaks The language of her soul,
And yet her siren voice,
So soft and sweet, breathes melody.
Her curls wave o'er her brow of snow,
Play o'er her sea-foam neck,
And fall upon her breast,
Dark as the clustering grapes on vines.
Her eye-brows emulate the bow,
And lashes darkly set,
Shroud the bright fond eye's fire, Which when upturn'd illumes the skies.
Her pearly teeth are beautiful,
Like bars of ivory,
All chisel'd most complete,
By master-hands, and set in gems.
O Love thou art a silly thing,
To lead our hearts astray;
To bear us on thy downy wing,
Up life's uneven way,
And cheer us with thy sunny ray;
Upborne we hear thee sweetly sing,
While odours all around you fling,
Our fond hearts to betray.
And when from thee, in merry glee,
We distant wish to rove;
The bands round us we feel, and see
The net thy hands have wove;
And struggling to be free from Love, The ravel'd maze we cannot flee; Forc'd votaries now, we bow to thee Content within thy grove,
But oh! we feel the gleam
Of fortune's summer ray;
Changing to winter's stream
Swelling with foam and spray,
That rolls our joys away;
Now sweepy whirlwinds scream,
And clouds enwrap Love's beam,
And tyrant Woe bears sway.
Her pearly teeti are beautiful,
Like bare of ivory,
All chisel'd most complete,
By master-hands, and set in gems.
|