صور الصفحة
PDF
النشر الإلكتروني

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

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

VOL. III.

R. A. DAVENPORT. 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?
O, 'tis love, 'tis love!

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;
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.

What prompts me, then, averse to fly
The luring lip and breast and eye?
Know that my proud, imperious heart
Of aught it loves can yield no part:
Where'er it reigns, it reigns alone,
And spurns a rival from its throne *.
Then, since far other thoughts are thine,
Thy witching beauties I resign.

R. A. DAVENPORT.

SONG.

I AM wearing away like the snow in the sun,
I am wearing away from the pain in my heart;
But ne'er shall he know, who my peace has undone,
How bitter, how lasting, how deep is my smart.
I know he would pity-so kind is his soul,
To him my affliction would agony be;

But never, while I can my feelings control,
The youth whom I love shall know sorrow
through me.

Though longing to weep, in his presence I'll smile, Call the flush on my cheek the pure crimson of

health;

His fears for my peace by my song I'll beguile, Nor venture to gaze on his eyes but by stealth. For conscious I am, by my glance is express'd The passion that faithful as hopeless will be, And he, whom, alas! I can ne'er render bless'd, Shall never, no never, know sorrow through me.

MRS. OPIE.

Bears, like the Turk, no rival near his throne. Pope.

SONG.

To thy cliffs, rocky Seaton, adieu!
And adieu to the roar of thy seas!
And adieu to the girl whose insensible heart
Is as hard and as sullen as these!
Forget the fond echoes you heard!
Forget my fond hope and my strain!
My strain is neglected, and dead is my hope
But you never shall hear me complain-
To your cliffs, rocky Seaton, adieu!

REV. W. CROWE.

1

SONG.

IN THE STYLE OF MR. CROWE'S SONG, ' SEATON
CLIFFS.'

FROM thy waves, stormy Lannow, I fly,
From the rocks that are lash'd by their tide;
From the maid whose cold bosom, relentless as
Has wreck'd my warm hopes by her pride! [they,
Yet lonely and rude as the scene,

Her smile to that scene could impart

A charm that might rival the bloom of the vale ;But away thou fond dream of my heart!

To thy rocks, stormy Lannow, adieu!

Now the blasts of the Winter come on,

And the waters grow dark as they rise;

But 'tis well!-they resemble the sullen disdain That has lour'd in those insolent eyes.

Sincere were the sighs it repress'd,

« السابقةمتابعة »