صور الصفحة
PDF
النشر الإلكتروني

But bitter, bitter are the tears

Of her who slighted love bewails,
No hope her gloomy prospect cheers,

No pleasing melancholy hails.
Hers are the papgs of wounded pride,

Of blasted hope, of wither'd joy :
The prop she lean’d on pierced her side,

The flame she fed burns to destroy.
In vain does Memory renew

The scenes once tinged in transport's dye; The sad reverse soon starts to view,

And turns the past to agony. Even conscious Virtue cannot cure

The pangs to every feeling due; Ungenerous youth! thy boast how poor,

To win a heart,--and break it too! No cold approach, no alter'd mien,

Just what would make Suspicion start, No pause the dire extremes between;

He made me blest,—and broke my heart. From Hope, the wretched's anchor, torn,

Neglected, and neglecting all; Friendless, forsaken, and forlorn,

The tears I shed must ever fall!

MRS. D. STEWART.

THE BANKS OF NITH.
To thee, loved Nith, whose gladsome plains

So late I traced with careless breast,
I bring again a heart unchanged,

Though torn with grief, with care oppress’d.

Ye scenes of dear departed joys

With transport felt, with transport sung, To other lays your gales have sigh'd

With blyther notes your echoes rung. And now your banks and bonnie braes

But waken sad remembrance' smart; The very shades I held most dear

Now strike fresh anguish to my heart: Deserted bower! where are they now?

Ah! where the garlands that I wove With faithful care, each morn to deck

The altars of ungrateful love? The flowers of spring how gay they bloom'd

When last with Him I wandered here, The flowers of spring have passed away

For wintry horrors dark and drear. Yon osier'd stream, by whose lone banks

My songs have lull’d him oft to rest, Is now in icy fetters lock’d,

Cold as my false love's frozen breast. Though music brings its wonted charm,

The soothing power no more I prove, For how can peace that reed impart

Which vibrates yet with fondest love? Ah! vainly, vainly do I mourn,

And vainly, vainly hope relief; Yet come, my reed—thy tuneful art

Shall waft, in plaintive sounds, my grief. Ye banks of Nith, prolong the strain,

And if my love still court your shade, Say, though I deeply mourn the change,

The charmer I can ne'er upbraid.

Tell him, inconstant though he be,

My faith can ne'er from him depart; His are the tears that drown my song, And his the sighs that rend my heart.

MARIA RIDDELL.

THE MAID WITH BOSOM COLD.
Of me they cry, I'm often told-
See there the maid with bosom cold!
Indifference o'er her heart presides,
And love and lovers she derides;
Their idle darts, unmeaning chains,
Fantastic whims, and silly pains :
In pride secure, in reason bold,
See there the Maid with bosom cold.'
Ah! ever be they thus deceived !
Still be my bosom cold believed,
And never may inquiring eyes
Pierce through unhappy love's disguise:
Yet could they all my bosom share,
And see each painful tumult there,
Ah! never should I then be told
That I'm the Maid with bosom cold.
A fate severe, my suffering mind
To endless struggles has consign’d,
I feel a flame I must not own,
I love, yet every hope is flown;
Too strong to let my passion sway,
Too weak to teach it to obey,
I agonize, and then am told
That I'm the Maid with bosom cold.

VOL. IV.

The joy o'er all my looks express'd
Conceals a bosom ill at rest;
To balls and routs I haste away,
But only imitate the gay:
I jest at love and mock his power,
Yet feel his triumph every hour:
And lost to every bliss am told
That I'm the Maid with bosom cold.

Unable from myself to fly,
I catch each word, I read each eye :
Antonio comes—I die with fear
Lest others mark my faltering air;
My eye perhaps too fondly gazed,
My tongue too much too little praised:
Suspicion's trembling slave—I'm told
That I'm the Maid with bosom cold.
With anxious toil, with ceaseless care,
Content and careless I appear;
All mirth beneath another's eye,
Alone I heave the helpless sigh,
Hang musing o'er his image dear,
Feel on my cheek the' unbidden tear,
And think, ah! why should I be told
That I'm the Maid with bosom cold?

The flower may wave its foliage gay,
And flaunt it to the garish day,
Unseen the while a canker's power
May haste its honours to devour ;
And thus, while vainly round me play
Youth’s zephyr-breath, and pleasure's ray,
My fate unknown, my tale untold,
Thus sinks the Maid with bosom cold.

W. SMYTH.

THE LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS IN

DECLINING HEALTH. PRIDE of yon lawns whose living gems

Bespangle Flora's summer vest, Smote by the daystar's sultry beams

The musk rose bows her blushing crest. Unwonted grief my breast invades,

Cynthia! that drooping rose art thou; And envious malady o'ershades

The graces of thy lovely brow. E'en now her withering touch I view

Steal from thy cheek health's crimson dye; And languor each bright glance subdue

That told my heart love's embassy. Pallid thy lip, that Venus bless'd

With ruby tints, with rich perfumes; Where he, whose arrows pierce my breast,

In nectar bathed his little plumes. Thy bosom's heavenly orbs of snow

Swell not above its circling zone, And faintly throbs that heart below,

Which beat for love and me alone. Ah! should inexorable Fate

To his dark realms my fair consign, Shall Thyrsis ask a longer date?

No! let thy parting hour be mine! Sever'd through life's inclement day,

O! give thy last fond sigh to me; . And bless'd the mandate I'll obey That weds my soul in death to thee.

ANONYMOUS.

« السابقةمتابعة »