« السابقةمتابعة »
“Yet stay, fair lady, rest a while,
Beneath this cloyster wall: See, through the hawthorne blows the cold wind,
And drizzly rain doth fall."
“O stay me not, thou holy Friar !
O stay me ņot, I pray!
Can wash my fault away.”
“ Yet stay, fair lady, turn again,
And dry those pearly tears;
Thy own true-love appears.
Here, forc'd by grief and hopeless love,
These holy weeds I sought; And here amid these lonely walls
To end my days I thought.
"Bat haply, for my year
grace Is not yet pass'd away, Might I still hope to win thy love,
No longer would I stay.”
Now farewell grief, and welcome joy
Once more unto my heart;
We never more will part.”
BY WILLIAM MELMOTH, ESQ.
Ere Saturn's sons were yet disgrac’d,
Say, which of all this shining train
Beside the road a mansion stood,
The dame who own'd, adorn’d the place; Three blooming daughters added grace. The first, with gentlest manners blest And temper sweet, each heart possest; Who view'd her, catch'd the tender flame: And soft Amasia was her name. In sprightly sense and polishid air, What maid with Mira might compare ? While Lucia's eyes and Lucia's lyre Did unresisted love inspire.
Imagine now the table clear,
When Wit thus spake her sister train:
“Faith, friends, our errand is but vain Quick let us measure back the sky; These nymphs alone may well supply Wit, Innocence, and Harmony.
AN INVITATION TO
THE FEATHERED RACE.
BY THE REV. MR. GRAVES.
Again the balmy Zephyr blows,
Fresh verdure decks the grove, Each bird with vernal rapture glows,
And tunes his notes to love.
Ye gentle warblers! hither fly,
And shun the noontide heat;
My groves a safe retreat.
Here freely hop from spray
spray, Or weave the mossy nest; Here rove and sing the live-long day,
At night here sweetly rest.
Amidst this cool translucent rill,
That trickles down the glade, Here bathe your plumes, here drink your fill,
And revel in the shade.
No school-boy rude, to mischief prone,
E’er shows his ruddy face,
In this sequester'd place.
Hither the vocal Thrush repairs,
Secure the Linnet sings, The Goldfinch dreads no slimy snares
To clog her painted wings.
Sad Philomel! ah, quit thy haunt
Yon distant woods among, And round my friendly grotto chaunt
Thy sweetly-plaintive song.
Let not the harmless Redbreast fear,
Domestic bird, to come And seek a sure asylum here,
With one that loves his home.
My trees for you, ye artless tribe,
Shall store of fruit preserve; Oh, let me thus your friendship bribe !
Come, feed without reserve.
For you these cherries I protect,
To you these plums belong: Sweet is the fruit that you have peck’d,
But sweeter for your song.