ΤΟ "TWAS not the quick and dazzling glance That bow'd me to thy sweet control: That roused my breast from dull repose: R. A. DAVENPORT. SONG. WHEN far beneath the western wave the orb of day's descended, [mantle spreads, And Twilight o'er the tired earth her dewy And all the birds, save Philomel, their warbled strains have ended, [their leafy beds; And, lull'd by whispering zephyr, sleep within I fly the sound of human voice, the sight of human dwelling, [along, A melancholy wanderer, to rove the woods And there, while tears my eyes o'erflow, while grief my heart is swelling, I break the silence of the night by many a mournful song! languish? O! ask you why alone I rove, why ceaselessly I [bids me wander so: "Tis Love that saddens all my thoughts, that But who the maid, whose magic power has fill'd my soul with anguish, [must know. No mortal ear has ever heard, no mortal ear R. A. DAVENPORT. SERENADE. THE gale breathes soft, the moon's pale beam No more I strive by hardy deed But thou, for whom in life's fair bloom Thou sleep'st, my love, still be thy breast R. A. DAVENPORT. A MORNING SALUTATION. THOU rose of my love! from thy slumber arise! And opening its leaves to the breath of the gales, A pleasure to gladden thy lover's fond heart; When absent from thee he still thinks on thy charms, And sighs to be folded once more in thy arms. VOL. III. SONG. AIR-Jess Macpharlane. WHY ceaseless do I sigh? What mean my broken slumbers? And breathe but mournful numbers? O my heart, why beating Dost thou ask to die, That wish each hour repeating? O, 'tis love, 'tis love! Alas! to soothe my pain, No hope my soul can borrow: Still must I love in vain; O my love! though sighing, But bless thee even in dying: R. A. DAVENPORT. SONG. DEAREST mother, sure I find Charms in Damon's every feature; And Damon, innocent and kind, Would surely harm no living creature; Yet, when I hear but Damon's name, My cheeks are crimson'd o'er with blushes, And through all my languid frame A strange and sudden tremor rushes; And sighs my throbbing bosom swell, Tell me, dearest mother, tell Why thus I blush, and sigh, and tremble? R. A. DAVENPORT. SONG. Nor ruby clear nor damask rose As that sweet lip that, fraught with bliss, Yet, though I deem it heaven to sip The dewy balm of such a lip, And though thou bidst that lip be mine, Fair, smooth, and round, thy heaving breast In all the trance of ecstasy. Yet, though so smooth, so round, so white Bright are those eyes; who dares to gaze |