Though thy form, that was fashion'd as light as a fay's, Has assumed a proportion more round,

And thy glance, that was bright as a falcon's at gaze, Looks soberly now on the ground,

Enough, after absence to meet me again,

Thy steps still with ecstasy move;
Enough, that those dear sober glances retain
For me the kind language of love.

THE VIOLET.1

THE violet in her green-wood bower,
Where birchen boughs with hazels mingle,
May boast itself the fairest flower

In glen, or copse, or forest dingle.

Though fair her gems of azure hue,
Beneath the dew-drop's weight reclining;
I've seen an eye of lovelier blue,

More sweet through wat'ry lustre shining.

The summer sun that dew shall dry,
Ere yet the day be past its morrow;
Nor longer in my false love's eye

Remain'd the tear of parting sorrow.

1 This and the following piece appeared in the "English Minstrelsy." vol. ii. Edinburgh: 1810.]

TO A LADY.

WITH FLOWERS FROM A ROMAN WALL.

TAKE these flowers, which, purple waving,
On the ruin'd rampart grew,

Where, the sons of freedom braving,
Rome's imperial standards flew.

Warriors from the breach of danger
Pluck no longer laurels there:
They but yield the passing stranger
Wild-flower wreaths for Beauty's hair.

THE RESOLVE

IN IMITATION OF AN OLD ENGLISH POEM.-1809

My wayward fate I needs must plain,
Though bootless be the theme;

I loved, and was beloved again,
Yet all was but a dream:

For, as her love was quickly got,

So it was quickly gone;

No more I'll bask in flame so hot,

But coldly dwell alone.

'[Published in the Edinburgh Annual Register of 1808.1

Not maid more bright than maid was e'er

My fancy shall beguile,

By flattering word, or feigned tear,
By gesture, look, or smile:

No more I'll call the shaft fair shot,
Till it has fairly flown,

Nor scorch me at a flame so hot;-
I'll rather freeze alone.

Each ambush'd Cupid I'll defy,
In cheek, or chin, or brow,
And deem the glance of woman's eye
As weak as woman's vow:
I'll lightly hold the lady's heart,
That is but lightly won;

I'll steel my breast to beauty's art,
And learn to live alone.

The flaunting torch soon blazes out,
The diamond's ray abides;
The flame its glory hurls about,
The gem its lustre hides;

Such gem I fondly deem'd was mine,

And glow'd a diamond stone,
But, since each eye may see it shine,

I'll darkling dwell alone.

No waking dream shall tinge my thought
With dyes so bright and vain,
No silken net, so slightly wrought,

Shall tangle me again:

No more I'll pay so dear for wit,

I'll live upon mine own,

Nor shall wild passion trouble it,-
I'll rather dwell alone.

And thus I'll hush my heart to rest,"Thy loving labour's lost;

Thou shalt no more be wildly blest,

To be so strangely crost:
The widow'd turtles mateless die,
The phoenix is but one;

They seek no loves-no more will I—
I'll rather dwell alone."

EPITAPH,1

DESIGNED FOR A MONUMENT IN LICHFIELD CATHEDRAL At the Burial-Place of the Family of Miss Seward.

AMID these aisles, where once his precepts show'd
The Heavenward pathway which in life he trode,
This simple tablet marks a Father's bier,
And those he loved in life, in death are near;
For him, for them, a Daughter bade it rise,
Memorial of domestic charities.

Still wouldst thou know why o'er the marble spread,
In female grace the willow droops her head;
Why on her branches, silent and unstrung,
The minstrel harp is emblematic hung;
What poet's voice is smother'd here in dust
Till waked to join the chorus of the just,-
Lo! one brief line an answer sad supplies,
Honour'd, beloved, and mourn'd, here SEWARD lies
Her worth, her warmth of heart, let friendship say,
Go seek her genius in her living lay.

THE RETURN TO ULSTER.1

ONCE again, but how changed since my wand'rings began

I have heard the deep voice of the Lagan and Bann, And the pines of Clanbrassil resound to the roar, That wearies the echoes of fair Tullamore.

Alas! my poor bosom, and why shouldst thou burn! With the scenes of my youth can its raptures return? Can I live the dear life of delusion again,

That flow'd when these echoes first mix'd with my strain?

It was then that around me, though poor and unknown,
High spells of mysterious enchantment were thrown:
The streams were of silver, of diamond the dew,
The land was an Eden, for fancy was new.

I had heard of our bards, and my soul was on fire
At the rush of their verse, and the sweep of their lyre:
To me 't was not legend, nor tale to the ear,

But a vision of noontide, distinguish'd and clear.

Ultonia's old heroes awoke at the call,

And renew'd the wild pomp of the chase and the hall; And the standard of Fion flash'd fierce from on high; Like a burst of the sun when the tempest is nigh.2

1

[First published in Mr. G. Thompson's Collection of Irish Airs. 1816.]

2 In ancient Irish poetry, the standard of Fion, or Fingal, is called the Sun-burst, an epithet feebly rendered by the Sun-beam of Macpherson.