On every grief but mine so ready Like mine her bosom now may feel Though maiden modesty dissemble; So whispers Hope: by Fancy led With stifled smiles of patient rancour, Ah! still, though whisper'd to deceive, Content from grief one hour to borrow! F. LAURENCE. VOL. III. כי TO A YOUNG LADY. WHY thus decline my troubled eyes, My voice, in broken murmurs ending? Yet, dawning from my looks distress'd, Read-ah too dear! the fond confession. In vain! what these soft tumults show, What means the sigh, the blush unbidden. But hope not ever thus secure To dart thy wildly wandering glances: Thou soon shalt feel in bloom mature; 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 Girt with troops of wan diseases, Linger ye, propitious breezes? Hither, where my languid maid Come with balmy spirit blowing; Health in rosy beauty glowing, Bright-eyed Joy to Youth allied While with giddy gesture after 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; Pour to you the liquid measures; Soft as when your downy wings Murmuring sweetly pensive pleasures. Blushing if it meet my gazes, 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 As around her charms ye hover, 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; 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; Nor teach your echoes more Sad were indeed those days A host of woes my sicken'd soul alarm'd; Nor verdure-vested plains Nor gales odorous nor bright landscapes charm'd. 1 Then, misery's chosen child, I sought your loneliest wild, Where stole the brook, scarce heard its murmurs And, stretch'd on dewy earth, I cursed my hour of birth, And pour'd to winds my unavailing plaint. Sad were those days indeed! But soon my pastoral reed, [faint; To songs of joy awaked, ye glad shall hear : That long my life o'ercast; The forms are fled of anguish and of fear, |