Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing Will shed around some dews of spring: But, if his scythe must sweep the flowers, Which bloom among the fairy bowers, Where smiling youth delights to dwell, And hearts with early rapture swell; If frowning age, with cold control, Confines the current of the soul, Congeals the tear in Pity's eye, Or checks the sympathetic sigh, Or hears, unmoved, Misfortune's groan, And bids me feel for self alone: Oh! may my bosom never learn To soothe its wonted heedless flow, Still, still despise the censor stern, But ne'er forget another's woe. Yes, as you knew me in the days O'er which remembrance yet delays, Still may I rove, untutor'd, wild, And, even in age, at heart a child. Though now on airy visions borne, To you my soul is still the same, Oft has it been my fate to mourn, And all my former joys are tame; But, hence! ye hours of sable hue, Your frowns are gone, my sorrows o'er, By every bliss my childhood knew, I'll think upon your shade no more; Thus, when the whirlwinds' rage is past, And caves their sullen roar enclose; We heed no more the wintry blast, When lull'd by zephyr to repose. Full often has my infant Muse Attuned to love her languid lyre, But now, without a theme to choose, The strains in stol'n sighs expire: My youthful nymphs, alas! are flown, E And Carolina sighs alone, And Mary's given to another; And every lady's eye's a sun, These last should be confined to one. Extinguish'd with the dying embers. Has thrice perform'd her stated round, Above the dear-loved peaceful seat, Which once contain'd our youth's retreat; ΤΟ OH! had my fate been join'd with thine, To thee these early faults I owe, To thee, the wise and old reproving; They know my sins, but do not know "Twas thine to break the bonds of loving. For once my soul, like thine, was pure, Perhaps his peace I could destroy, And spoil the blisses that await him; Yet let my rival smile in joy, For thy dear sake I cannot hate him. Ah! since thy angel form is gone, My heart no more can rest with any; But what it sought in thee alone, Attempts, alas! to find in many. Then fare thee well, deceitful maid, But pride may teach me to forget thee. Yet all this giddy waste of years, This tiresome round of palling pleasures; If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd:- Yes, once the rural scene was sweet, But now I seek for other joys, To think, would drive my soul to madness; In thoughtless throngs, and empty noise, my bosom's sadness. I conquer half Yet, even in these a thought will steal, In spite of every vain endeavour; STANZAS. I WOULD I were a careless child, The cumbrous pomp of Saxon* pride I hate the slaves that cringe around: Which sound to ocean's wildest roar, I ask but this again to rove Through scenes my youth hath known before. Few are my years, and yet I feel The world was ne'er design'd for me; I loved-but those I loved are gone; How dull! to hear the voice of those Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power, Have made, though neither friends or foes, Associates of the festive hour: * Sassenage, or Saxon, a Gaelic word, signifying either Low. land or English. |