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 not its 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 spirit knelt; 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. Qh! 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 high, And the charm of person worshipp'd, in a homage offered not To the perfect charm of virtue, and the majesty of thought. Away! I will not fetter thus the spirit God hath given, Nor stoop the pinion back to earth that beareth up to heaven; I will not bow a tameless heart to fashion's iron rule, Nor welcome, with a smile, alike the gifted and the fool: No-let the throng pass coldly on; a treasure few may find, The charm of person doubly dear beneath the light of mind. N. E. WEEKLY REVIEW., THE SWALLOW. THE gorse is yellow on the heath, The banks with speedwell flowers are gay, The welcome guest of settled spring, Come, summer visitant, attach To my reed roof your nest of clay, As fables tell, an Indian sage, I wish I did his power possess, That I might learn, fleet bird, from thee, I would a little while restrain Your rapid wing, that I might hear Whether on clouds, that bring the rain, You sail'd above the western main, The wind your charioteer. In Afric does the sultry gale Through spicy bower and palmy grove Were you in Asia? O, relate If there your fabled sister's woes She seem'd in sorrow to narrate; Or sings she but to celebrate Her nuptials with the rose. I would inquire how, journeying long But if, as colder breezes blow, You hide, though none know when or how, And linger torpid here; Thus to life, what favouring dream Or if, by instinct taught to know, How learn ye, while the cold waves boom Alas! how little can be known Her sacred veil where Nature draws! CHARLOTTE SMITH. ODE TO EVENING. Ir aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, O nymph reserved, while now the bright-hair'd sun O'erhang his wavy bed: Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat, His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path, To breathe some softened strain, Whose numbers stealing through thy dark'ning vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit; As, musing slow, I hail Thy genial loved return! For when thy folding star arising shows Who slept in buds the day; And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge, And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still, The pensive pleasures sweet, Prepare thy shadowy car. Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene, By thy religious gleams. Or if chill blustering winds, or driving rain, And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires, While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves; And rudely rends thy robes; So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, And love thy favourite name! COLLINS. |