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On every grief but mine so ready
But mine can melt, thus ever steady
Like mine her bosom now may feel
Though maiden modesty dissemble ;
The' involuntary tear may tremble, And own the triumph of the strain:
So whispers Hope: by Fancy led
With rosy wreaths her sacred anchor
With stifled smiles of patient rancour,
Ah! still, though whisper'd to deceive,
Content from grief one hour to borrow!
Hang gathering clouds of future sorrow,
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
Readah too dear! the fond confession.
In vain! what these soft tumults show,
From thee, yet new to love, is hidden;
What means the sigh, the blush unbidden.
But hope not ever thus secure
To dart thy wildly wandering glances :
On hasty wing thy youth advances.
O skill'd in every graceful art
That adds a polish'd charm to beauty ;,
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
Dimpled Smiles, and sleek-brow'd Laughter.
Joy-born Mirth shall lead the train;
Her each sprightlier Love shall follow,
In the dimple's treacherous hollow.
So your praise my song shall tell;
Pour to you the liquid measures ;
Murmuring sweetly pensive pleasures.
Blushing if it meet my gazes,
Little you regard my praises.
Sound your voices sadly sighing,
To your airy woe replying ;
in amorous play
As around her charms ye hover,
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,
Once more from cities proud,
Tired of their moiling crowd,
But not, as erst, shall I
Amid your beauties sigh,
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
Sad were indeed those days
When, flying man's rude gaze,
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,
Sad were those days indeed !
But soon my pastoral reed,
For now the clouds are pass’d
That long my life o'ercast;