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Is it, that in thy glaring eye,
And rapid movements, we desc y
While we at ease, secure fromii y
The chimney-corner snugly fill,
A lion, darting on the prey,
A tiger at his ruthless play?
Qris it, that in thee we trace,
With all thy varied wanton grace,
An emblem view’d with kindred eye,
Oftricksy, restless infancy?
To fair Fidele's tomb
Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing spring.
Nowailing ghost shall dare appear,
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove,
But shepherd lads assemble here,
And melting virgins own their love.
No wither'd witch shall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew;
The female says shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew!
The redbreast oft, at evening hours,
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gather'd flowers, |
To deck the ground where thou artiaid
When howling winds and beating rain
In tempests shake the sylvan cell,
Or 'midst the chase on every plain,
The tender thought on thee shall dwell,
Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly shed;
Beloved, till life can charm no more;
And mourn'd, till pity's self be dead.
BENEATH these fruit-tree boughs that shed
Their snow-white blossoms on my head,
With brightest sunshine round me spread
Of spring's unclouded weather,
In this sequester'd nook how sweet
To sit upon my orchard-seat!
And birds and flowers once more to greet,
My last year's friends together.
One have I mark'd, the happiest guest
In all this covert of the blest:
Hail to thee, far above the rest
Injoy of voice and pinion,
Thou, Linnet! in thy green array,
Presiding spirit here to-day,
Dost lead the revels of the May,
And this is thy dominion.
While birds, and butterflies, and flowers
Make all one band of paramours,
Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,
Art sole in thy employment;
A life, a presence like the air,
Scattering thy gladness without care,
Too bless'd with any one to pair,
Thyself thy own enjoyment.
pon yon tuft of hazel trees,
t twinkle to the gusty breeze,
Behold him perch’d in ecstasies,
Yet seeming still to hover;
There! where the flutter of his wings
Upon his back and body flings
Shadows and sunny glimmerings,
That cover him all over.
My sight he dazzles, half deceives,
A |. so like the dancing leaves;
Then flits, and from the cottage eaves
Pours forth his song in gushes;
As if by that exulting strain
He mock’d and treated with disdain
The voiceless form he chose to feign,
While fluttering in the bushes.
THEY say thou art not fair to others' eyes,
Thou who dost seem so beautiful in mine!
The stranger coldly passes thee, nor asks
What name, what }. what parentage are thine;
But carelessly, as though it were by chance,
Bestows on o an unadmiring glance.
Art thou not beautiful ?—To me it seems
As though the blue veins in thy temples fair—
The crimson in thy full and innocent lips—
The light that falls upon thy shining hair—
The varying colour in thy rounded cheek—
Must all of nature's endless beauty speak!
The very pillow which thy head hath prest
Through the past night, a picture brings to me
Of rest so holy, calm, and exquisite.
That sweet tears rise at thought of it and thee;
And I repeat, beneath the mornio's light, ...,
The mother's lingering gaze, and long good night
Yea, even thy shadow, as it slanting falls,
(When we two roam beneath the setting sun,)
Seems, as it glides along the path I tread,
A something bright and fair to gaze upon ;
I press thy little eager hand the while,
And do not even turn to see thee smile !
Art thou not beautiful!—I hear thy voice—
Its musical shouts of childhood's sudden mirth—
And echo back thy laughter, as thy feet
Come gladly bounding o'er the damp spring-earth.
Yet no gaze follows thee but mine. I fear
Love hath bewitch'd mine eyes—my only dear!
Beauty is that which dazzles—that which strikes—
That which doth o the gazer's tongue,
Till he hath found some ... word of praise
To bear his proud and swelling ...; along;
Sunbeams are beautiful—and gilded halls—
Wide terraces—and showery waterfalls.
Yet are there things which through the gazing eye
Reach the full soul, and thrill it into love,
Unworthy of those rapturous words of praise,
Yet prized, perchance, the brightest things above;
A nook that was our childhood's resting place—
A smile upon some dear familiar face.
And therefore did the discontented heart
Create that other word its thoughts to dress;
And what it could not say was beautiful,
Yet gain'd the dearer term of loveliness.
The are lovely –so art thou to me,
Child in whose face strange eyes no beauty see!
REFLECTIONS OF A BELLE. I’M weary of the crowded ball; I'm weary of the
mirth, Which never lifts itself above the grosser things of
earth ; I'm weary of the flatterer's tone: its music is no more, And eye and lip may answer notits meaning as before; I'm weary of the heartless throng—of being deem'd
as One, Whose spirit kindles only in the blaze of fashion's sun.
I speak in very bitterness, for I have deeply felt The mockery of the hollow shrine at which my joi. Mine is the requiem of years, in reckless folly pass'd, The wail above departed hopes, on a frail venture Cast, The vain regret, that steals above the wreck of squander'd hours, Like the sighing of the autumn wind above the faded flowers. Qh4 it is worse than mockery to list the flatterer's tone, To lend a ready ear to thoughts the cheek must blush to OWn,- To hear the red lip whisper'd of, and the flowing curl - and eye Made constant themes of eulogy, extravagant and
And dom of person worshipp'd, in a homage offered not
To the perfect charm of virtue, and the majesty of thought.