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Come then-ere yet the morning ray

Has drunk the dew that gems your crest, And drawn your balmiest sweets away;

O come, and grace my Anna's breast. Ye droop, fond flowers ! But did ye know

What worth, what goodness there reside, Your cups with liveliest tints would glow,

And spread their leaves with conscious pride. For there has liberal Nature join'd

Her riches to the stores of Art, And added to the vigorous mind

The soft the sympathizing heart. Come then-ere yet the morning ray

Has drunk the dew that gems your crest, And drawn your balmiest sweets away;

O come, and grace my Anna's breast. O! I should think—that fragrant bed

Might I but hope with you to shareYears of anxiety repaid

By one short hour of transport there.
More bless'd than me, thus shall ye live

Your little day; and when ye die,
Sweet flowers! the grateful Muse shall give

A verse; the sorrowing maid a sigh.
While I alas! no distant date,

Mix with the dust from whence I came, Without a friend to weep my fate, Without a stone to tell my name.

GIFFORD.

WRITTEN TWO YEARS AFTER THE

PRECEDING. I wish I was where Anna lies,

For I am sick of lingering here; And every hour Affection cries,

Go, and partake her humble bier, I wish I could! For when she died

I lost my all; and life has proved Since that sad hour a dreary void,

A waste unlovely and unloved. But who, when I am turn’d to clay,

Shall duly to her grave repair, And pluck the ragged moss away,

And weeds that have no business there? And who with pious hand shall bring

The flowers she cherish’d, snowdrops cold, And violets that unheeded spring,

To scatter o'er her hallow'd mould ?
And who, while memory loves to dwell

Upon her name for ever dear,
Shall feel his heart with passion swell,

And pour the bitter, bitter tear?
I did it; and, would fate allow,

Should visit still, should still deplore-
But health and strength have left me now,

And I, alas! can weep no more.
Take then, sweet maid! this simple strain,

The last I offer at thy shrine ;
Thy grave must then undeck'd remain,

And all thy memory fade with mine.

And can thy soft persuasive look,

Thy voice that might with music vie, Thy air that every gazer took,

Thy matchless eloquence of eye, Thy spirits frolicksome as good,

Thy courage by no ills dismay'd, Thy patience by no wrongs subdued,

Thy gay good humour—Can they 'fade !" Perhaps—but sorrow dims my eye;

Cold turf, which I no more must view, Dear name, which I no more must sigh, A long, a last, a sad adieu !

* GIFFORD.

THE SORROWS OF MEMORY.

In vain to me the howling deep

Stern Winter's awful reign discloses ; In vain shall summer zephyrs sleep

On fragrant beds of budding roses ! To me alike each scene appears,

Since thou hast broke my heart, or nearly, While memory writes in frequent tears

That I have loved thee-very dearly! How many summers pass'd away,

How many winters sad and dreary; And still I taught thee to be gay,

Whene'er thy soul of life was weary. When lingering sickness wrung thy breast,

And bow'd thee to the earth, or nearly, I strove to lull thy mind to rest;

For then I loved thee;-oh! how dearly!

And though the flush of joy no more

Shall, o'er my cheek its lustre throwing, Bid sensual fools that cheek adore,

And talk of passion ever glowing; Still to thy mind should time impart

A charm to bid it feel sincerely, Nor idly wound a breaking heart

That's loved thee long and loved thee dearly! Could gold thy truant fancy bind,

A faithful heart would still content me; For oh! to gain a heart unkind,

I gave thee all that fortune lent me. In youth when suitors round me press’d,

Who vow'd to love and love sincerely, When wealth could never charm my breast,

Though thou wert poor, I loved thee dearly ! Seek not the fragile dreams of love,

Such fleeting phantoms will deceive thee ; They will but transient idols prove,

In wealth beguile, in sorrow leave thee. Oh, dost thou think the sordid mind,

When thou art poor, will feel sincerely? Wilt thou in such that friendship find

Which warm’d the heart that loved thee dearly? Though fickle passion cease to burn

For her so long thy bosom's treasure, Oh, think that reason may return,

When far from thee my paths I measure. Say who will then thy conscience heal,

Or who will bid thy heart beat cheerly? Or from that heart the memory steal

Of her who loved thee long and dearly?

When war shall rouse the brooding storm,

And horrors haunt thy thorny pillow; When Fancy shall present my form,

Borne on the wild and restless billow; Oh, where wilt thou a mistress find

Whose pulse like mine shall throb sincerely? Or who thy heart in spells shall bind,

When hers is broke who loved thee dearly? Could I to distant regions stray,

From thee my thoughts would never wander; For at the parting close of day,

By some lone vagrant rill's meander, Each wandering bee, each chilling wind

Would tell the heart that's broken nearly, In them whene'er they roam to find

The faults of him I loved so dearly. I will not court thy fickle love,

Soon shall our fates and fortune sever; Far from thy scorn will I remove,

And smiling sigh, Adieu for ever. Give to thy sordid friends thy days,

Still trust that they will act sincerely; And when the specious mask decays,

Lament the heart that loved thee dearly! Fortune will swiftly journey on,

And age and sickness haste to meet thee, Friends and deceitful wantons shun,

When they no more with smiles can cheat thee. Then wilt thou ask in vain to find

A faithful heart that beats sincerely, A passion centring in the mind

Which, scorning interest, loved thee dearly!

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