"Sweet were his words when last we met,
My passion I as freely told him ;
Clasp'd in his arms, I little thought
That I should never more behold him!
Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost;
It vanish'd with a shriek of sorrow;
Thrice did the water-wraith ascend,
And gave a doleful groan through Yarrow.
"His mother from the window look'd, With all the longing of a mother;
His little sister weeping walk'd
The green-wood path to meet her brother: They sought him east, they sought him west, They sought him all the Forest thorough; They only saw the cloud of night,
They only heard the roar of Yarrow!
"No longer from thy window look,
Thou hast no son, thou tender mother!
No longer walk, thou lovely maid!
Alas! thou hast no more a brother!
No longer seek him east or west,
And search no more the Forest thorough;
For, wandering in the night so dark,
He fell a lifeless corse in Yarrow.
"The tear shall never leave my cheek,
No other youth shall be my marrow;
I'll seek thy body in the stream,
And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow."
The tear did never leave her cheek,
No other youth became her marrow;
She found his body in the stream,
And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow.
ODE ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG
LADY.
THE peace of Heaven attend thy shade,
My early friend, my fav'rite maid!
When life was new, companions gay,
We hail'd the morning of our day.
Ah! with what joy did I behold
The flower of beauty fair unfold!
And fear'd no storm to blast thy bloom,
Or bring thee to an early tomb!
Untimely gone! for ever fled
The roses of the cheek so red;
Th' affection warm, the temper mild,
The sweetness that in sorrow smiled.
Alas! the cheek where beauty glow'd,
The heart where goodness overflow'd,
A clod amid the valley lies,
And "Dust to dust," the mourner cries.
O from thy kindred early torn,
And to thy grave untimely borne,
Vanish'd for ever from my view,
Thou sister of my soul, adieu!
Fair with my first ideas twined,
Thine image oft will meet my mind;
And, while remembrance brings thee near,
Affection sad will drop a tear.
How oft does sorrow bend the head,
Before we dwell among the dead!
Scarce in the years of manly prime,
I've often wept the wrecks of time.
What tragic tears bedew the eye!
What deaths we suffer ere we die!
Our broken friendships we deplore,
And loves of youth that are no more.
No after-friendship e'er can raise
Th' endearments of our early days;
And ne'er the heart such fondness prove,
As when it first began to love.
Affection dies, a vernal flower;
And love, the blossom of an hour:
The spring of fancy cares control,
And mar the beauty of the soul.
Versed in the commerce of deceit,
How soon the heart forgets to beat!
The blood runs cold at interest's call:
They look with equal eyes on all.
Then lovely nature is expell'd,
And friendship is romantic held;
Then prudence comes with hundred eyes:
The vail is rent-the vision flies.
The dear illusions will not last;
The era of enchantment's past;
The wild romance of life is done;
The real history is begun.
The sallies of the soul are o'er,
The feast of fancy is no more;
And ill the banquet is supplied)
By form, by gravity, by pride.
Ye gods! whatever ye withhold,"
Let my affections ne'er grow old!
Ne'er may the human glow depart,
Nor nature yield to frigid art!
Still may the generous bosom burn,
Though doom'd to bleed o'er beauty's urn;
And still the friendly face appear,
Though moisten'd with a tender tear!
YE virgins! fond to be admired,
With mighty rage of conquest fired,
And universal sway;
Who heave th' uncover'd bosom high,
And roll a fond, inviting eye,
On all the circle gay!
You miss the fine and secret art
To win the castle of the heart,
For which you all contend:
The coxcomb tribe may crowd your train, But you will never, never gain
If this your passion, this your praise,
To shine, to dazzle, and to blaze,
You may be call'd divine:
But not a youth beneath the sky
Will say in secret with a sigh,
"Owere that maiden mine !"
You marshal, brilliant, from the box,
Fans, feathers, diamonds, castled locks,
Your magazine of arms;
But 'tis the sweet sequester'd walk,
The whisp'ring hour, the tender talk,
That gives you genuine charms.
The nymph-like robe, the natural grace,
The smile, the native of the face,
Refinement without art;
The eye where pure affection beams,
The tear from tenderness that streams,
The accents of the heart;
The trembling frame, the living cheek,
Where, like the morning, blushes break,
To crimson o'er the breast;
The look where sentiment is seen,
Fine passion moving o'er the mien,
And all the soul express'd :
Your beauties these; with these you shine,
And reign on high by right divine,
The sovereigns of the world:
Then to your court the nations flow;
The muse with flowers the path will strew,
Where Venus' car is hurl'd.
From dazzling deluges of snow,
From summer noon's meridian glow,
We turn our aching eye
To nature's robe of vernal green,
To the blue curtain all serene
Of an autumnal sky.
The favourite tree of beauty's queen,
Behold the myrtle's modest green,
The virgin of the grove!
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