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TO

'Twas not the quick and dazzling glance

That fires and overpowers the soul, And wraps it in delirious trance,

That bow'd me to thy sweet control: No! 'twas from eyes of heavenly blue,

A languid, tender, timid ray, Stealing through lids of darkest hue,

That won me from myself away. 'Twas not the firm commanding voice,

Whose rapid eloquence o’erflows, And seems at homage to rejoice,

That roused my breast from dull repose: No!"'twas the soft and melting tones,

Like nectar dropping from thy tongue, By which my heart thy empire owns;

Its every chord to passion strung.
And while that winning voice I hear,

And while those beaming eyes I see,
Than light or life to me more dear,
My bosom's sovereign thou must be!

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,

salong, 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! O! ask you why alone I rove, why ceaselessly I languish?

[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
Light trembles on the murmuring stream;
And while her vigils Silence keeps,
From sorrow free, tired Labour sleeps;
Even the poor vagrant finds repose,
Nor thinks till morning-dawn of woes ;
But I, alas! the sad night long
Awake the lute and plaintive song.
No more I strive by hardy deed
To win immortal Glory's meed-
While others snatch the palm of praise
I waste in grief the lingering days;
With pallid cheek, and sunken eye,
From all that once was lovely fly;
Tell my deep anguish to the air,
And cherish in my breast despair, ,

But thou, for whom in life's fair bloom
I sink untimely to the tomb,
Thou sleep'st, my love, still be thy breast
With soft and balmy slumbers bless'd.
Sleep on, my Clara! I must feel
Awhile those pains no art can heal;
But near their end in death I see,
Nor murmur, since I die for thee!

R. A. DAVENPORT.

A MORNING SALUTATION. Thou rose of my love! from thy slumber arise ! The dawn from the orient empurples the skies; The lark the blue regions of ether explores, And exultingly trills his wild notes as he soars ; Now they sink in soft murmurs,now rapid and clear All their melodies pour on the wondering ear. The drops of the dew, liquid gems of the morn, Dart their tremulous rays from the white blos

som'd thorn, And opening its leaves to the breath of the gales, Each bloom and each floret its fragrance exhales. But nor odours nor songs nor bright hues can

impart As 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. Then, rose of my love! in thy beauty appear, And the songs and the odours again will be dear; Thebeams of the dawn with fresh glory be crown'd, And the soul of delight breathe enchantment around,

R. A. DAVENPORT. VOL. III.

M M

SONG,
Air-Jess Macpharlane.
Why ceaseless do I sigh?

What mean my broken slumbers ?
From busy crowds why fly?
And breathe but mournful numbers?

0, 'tis love, 'tis love!
O my heart, why beating
Dost thou ask to die,
That wish each hour repeating?

0, 'tis love, 'tis love!
Alas! to soothe my pain,

No hope my soul can borrow:
Still must I love in vain;
Still nourish silent sorrow;

O my love, my love!
O my love! though sighing,
I will not complain,
But bless thee even in dying:
O my love, my love!

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,

But not the sighs of pain resemble. Tell me, dearest mother, tell

Why thus I blush, and sigh, and tremble?

R. A. DAVENPORT.

SONG.
Nor ruby clear nor damask rose
With half so warm a crimson glows
As that sweet lip that, fraught with bliss,
Might tempt the frozen hermit's kiss!
Yet, though I deem it heaven to sip
The dewy balm of such a lip,
And though thou bidst that lip be mine,
Its honied treasures I resign.
Fair, smooth, and round, thy heaving breast
Seems form’d for Pleasure's downy nest!
There might the doting lover lie
In all the trance of ecstasy.
Yet, though so smooth, so round, so white
It swells, a couch of wild delight,
And though thou bidst me there recline,
The proffer'd blessing I resign.
Bright are those eyes; who dares to gaze
Shall feel the magic of their rays,
Shall find, too late, his freedom lost,
And all his soul in passion toss'd!
Yet, though their radiance dazzling falls,
So charms, so tempts, and so enthralls,
And though with smiles on me they shine,
Their smiling radiance I resign.

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