THE BLUSH. AN ENIGMA. WHEN first o'er Psyche's angel breast My birth their secret flame betray'd. No limbs my aëry charms obscure, No bone my elfin frame sustains, Yet blood I boast, as warm, as pure, As that which throbs in Hebe's veins. I sleep with beauty, watch with fear, Without a tongue, a voice, a sound, I still in ev'ry clime am found Love's sunshine, beam'd from brightest eyes, Spencer. LINES WRITTEN IN A GARDEN SEAT. If mirth alone to thee be dear, No longer let thine eye peruse What here inscrib'd thy glance may see; For I this artless verse would choose, Unmark'd by mortals blest like thee. But, stranger, at the touch of pain To steep thy soul in slumbers still; If harsh unkindness e'er for thee Thee would I greet in kindliest lay, Would like thee that others mourn, say And chide thee soft, if chide I may, And bid thee bear what I have born. And tell thee, stranger, if to me Thy sacred griefs had but been known, One heart, at least, had felt for thee, And made thy sorrows all its own. Smyth. ODE TO FOLLY. HAIL, goddess of the vacant eye! I saw thee shake, in sportive mood, Source of the sweets that never cloy, Thine are the charming draughts of joy No fiery spirits enter there, To rouse the tingling nerves to pain, Thy balmy cups, unbought with care, Swim lightly o'er the tender brain; Bland as the milky streams they flow, Nor leave the pungent dregs of woe. Gay partner of the school-boy band, Too soon those moments danc'd away; My years to manhood onward drew, And as my heart began to play, My listless limbs more languid grew : For now a thorn disturb'd my rest, The wish of something unpossess'd. At length with wonted pastime tir'd, I to the world's wide circle flew, There saw thee high in regal state, Thy crowded, clam'rous orgies hold, With bounding hands thy cymbals beat, And wide thy tawdry flag unfold; Whilst thy gay motley liveries shone On myriads that begirt thy throne. The devious path, sweet pow'r, I join'd: Thro' fancied fields of bliss we stray'd, A thousand wonders we design'd, A thousand idle pranks we play'd: Now grasp'd at glory's quiv'ring ray, And now in Chloe's arms we lay. But, Folly, why prolong my verse Thy triumphs on the youthful stage, For now, e'en now, in riper years, Oft I renounce my cautious fears, And clasp thee to my thoughtless breast; Enough that in Presumption's mien Beneath my roof thou ne'er art seen. That as my harmless course I run, The moody, mopeing, serious crew; V. |