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When in the grave my woes shall sleep,
No soothing dreams shall bless thy slumber; For thou wilt often wake to weep,
And in despair my sorrows number; My shade will haunt thy aching eyes,
My voice in whispers tell thee clearly, How cold at last that bosom lies Which loved thee long and loved thee dearly.
ADJEU, thou darling of my heart,
Whom never more these eyes shall view; Yet once again, before we part,
Nymph of my soul, again adieu! Yet one kiss more; this kiss, the last
That I will ask or thou shalt give, Though on my lips it dies too fast,
Shall always in my memory live. But thou each tender thought of me
Blot out for ever from thy breast,
While with another thou art bless'd.
Thus, thus thy beauties I resign;
But not a purer flame than mine. Yet let him make thy bliss his care,
As I, thou know'st it, would have done; My love for thy sake he shall share,
My envy, only for his own.
IN IMITATION OF TIBULLUS. WHERE now are all my flattering dreams of joy!
Monimia, give my soul her wonted rest; Since first thy beauty fix'd my roving eye,
Heart-gnawing cares corrode my pensive breast. Let happy lovers fly where pleasures call,
With festive songs beguile the fleeting hour; Lead beauty through the mazes of the ball,
Or press her, wanton, in love's roseate bower. For me, no more I'll range the’empurpled mead,
Where shepherds pipe, and virgins dance around, Nor wander through the woodbine's fragrant shade,
To hear the music of the grove resound. I'll seek some lonely church or dreary hall,
Where Fancy paints the glimmering taper blue, Where damps hang mouldering on the ivied wall,
And sheeted ghosts drink up the midnight dew: There, leagued with hopeless anguish and despair,
A while in silence o'er my fate repine : Then, with a long farewell to Love and Care,
To kindred dust my weary limbs consign. Wilt thou, Monimia, shed a gracious tear
On the cold grave where all my sorrows rest? Strew vernal flowers, applaud my love sincere, And bid the turf lie easy on my breast ?
LAURA; OR, THE COMPLAINT. YE groves, with venerable moss array'd, That o'er yon caverns stretch your pendent shade, Where sacred silence lulls the rural vale, And love in whispers tells his tender tale; Ye lonely rocks, ye streams that ever flow, Still as my tears, and constant as my woe, To you behold the wretched Laura flies, And baunts those seats from whence her sorrows
Where, lost to love, how often has she stray'd,
[o'er, Ah, once loved seats! your pleasing scenes are Nor can you charm, since he can love no more; Though smile your lawns with vernal glories
crown'd, In vain gay nature paints the' enamel'd ground; While through your solitary paths I rove, A prey to grief, to sickness, and to love, Though gentle zephyrs fan the bending bowers, Though breathes the incense of your opening
flowers, Nor opening flowers, nor gentle zephyrs charm, Nor beauteous scenes a grief like mine disarm; Fade every flower, and languish every sense, Ye have no sweets for fallen innocence. Torn by remorse,
sad victim of despair, Where shall I turn? or where address my prayer?
Far as the morn its early beam displays,
Soft God of sleep, whose ever peaceful reign
Imagination! mistress of the soul,
Urged by the golden morn the night recedes, And year to year in changeful course succeeds; Nor night nor morn nor years to me restore The peace which Laura's heart possess'd before; Involved in clouds one darksome scene I view; Bleed the same wounds, and all my pains renew.
O, boast of Laura's long forgotten praise ! Pass'd are the triumphs of my happier days, When placed supreme on beauty's radiant throne, I saw with conscious pride eaeh heart my own; Where'er I turn'd a thousand nymphs admired; Whene'er I smiled a thousand swains expired; I spoke, 'twas music dwelt upon my tongue ; I moved, a goddess and an angel sung. My careless steps in joy were taught to rove; Each voice was flattery, and each look was love; But beauty's power, too mighty long to last, Fled on the wings of rapid time, is pass'd.
As some proud vessel to the prosperous gale Her streamer waves, and spreads the silken sail, While silver oars to flutes soft breathing sweep With measured strokes the scarcely heaving deep,