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On every grief but mine so ready
To bid the balm of comfort flow;
Nor shall that eye, which every woe

But mine can melt, thus ever steady
To me alone no pity show.

Like mine her bosom now may feel
The tender melancholy steal,

Though maiden modesty dissemble ;
And now while Memory brings again
The Muse which first reveal'd my pain,

The' involuntary tear may tremble, And own the triumph of the strain:

So whispers Hope: by Fancy led
She comes; with rosy wreaths her head,

With rosy wreaths her sacred anchor
Love intertwines--in vain employ!
For lo! behind the exulting boy,

With stifled smiles of patient rancour,
Creeps Mockery, watchful to destroy.

Ah! still, though whisper'd to deceive,
Let me thy flatteries, Hope, believe,

Content from grief one hour to borrow!
Ah, still, if o'er my distant way,
As through the path of life I stray,

Hang gathering clouds of future sorrow,
O Fancy! gild them with thy ray!

F. LAURENCE.

VOL. III.

TO A YOUNG LADY.

Why thus decline my troubled eyes,

If hither their mild lustre bending Those azure orbs to meet me rise ? Why thus, with thee conversing, dies

My voice, in broken murmurs ending ?

Yet, dawning from my looks distress'd,

Yet wooing in the coy expression
Of faltering sounds, that half suppress'd
In sighs ill stified breathe the rest,

Readah too dear! the fond confession.

In vain! what these soft tumults show,

From thee, yet new to love, is hidden;
Untaught thy wishes yet to know,
If sighs ascend, if blushes glow,

What means the sigh, the blush unbidden.

But hope not ever thus secure

To dart thy wildly wandering glances :
What others now for thee endure
Thou soon shalt feel in bloom mature;

On hasty wing thy youth advances.

O skill'd in every graceful art

That adds a polish'd charm to beauty ;,
Be mine those pleasing cares to' impart
Which best refine the gentle heart,
Be mine to teach the tender duty.

F. LAURENCE.

TO THE ZEPHYRS.

YE! before whose genial breath
Hovering Death,

Girt with troops of wan diseases,
Quits the usurped domain of air ;
Where, oh! where

Linger ye, propitious breezes ?

Hither, where my languid maid
Woos your aid,

Come with balmy spirit blowing ;
Gentle harbingers of Spring,
Hither bring

Health in rosy beauty glowing,

Bright-eyed Joy to Youth allied
At her side;

While with giddy gesture after
Trip gay Sports of wilder glance,
Tiptoe Dance,

Dimpled Smiles, and sleek-brow'd Laughter.

Joy-born Mirth shall lead the train;
Soon again

Her each sprightlier Love shall follow,
All who from the front defy,
All who lie

In the dimple's treacherous hollow.

So your praise my song shall tell;
So my shell

Pour to you the liquid measures ;
Soft as when your downy'wings
Fan the strings,

Murmuring sweetly pensive pleasures.
Ah! no such reward ye seek;
O'er that cheek

Blushing if it meet my gazes,
O'er that bosom's living snow
Free to go,

Little you regard my praises.
Yet, if to my sober ear
Ever dear

Sound your voices sadly sighing,
Where from lonely shades my. grief
Courts relief,

To your airy woe replying ;
Mindful now,

in amorous play
Boldly gay

As around her charms ye hover,
Oh! in whisper'd sighs reveal
What I feel,
What to you alone discover.

F. LAURENCE.

ODE.

O WAVING woods! O hills !

O springs, and warbling rills! O far spread wilds, and sun-excluding bowers !

Where, stung with anguish deep,

I wander'd oft to weep,
And waste unseen the slowly lapsing hours !

Once more from cities proud,

Tired of their moiling crowd,
Soon shall I come my former paths to tread ;

But not, as erst, shall I

Amid your beauties sigh,
To all but pain and hopeless sorrow dead.

Fair to my gladden'd eyes

Will every object rise, As through your well known haunts I rove along;

For I shall not deplore,

Nor teach your echoes more
Of fruitless love the melancholy song.

Sad were indeed those days

When, flying man's rude gaze,
A host of woes my sicken'd soul alarm’d;

Then nor the woodland strains

Nor verdure-vested plains Nor gales odārous nor bright landscapes charm’d.

Then, misery's chosen child,

I sought your loneliest wild, Where stole the brook, scarce heard its murmurs

And, stretch'd on dewy earth, [faint;

I cursed my hour of birth,
And pour’d to winds my unavailing plaint.

Sad were those days indeed !

But soon my pastoral reed,
To songs of joy awaked, ye glad shall hear :

For now the clouds are pass’d

That long my life o'ercast;
The forms are filed of anguish and of fear,

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