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The wretch, 0 let me never know,
Who turns from pity's tearful eye; Who melts not at the dirge of wo,
But bids the soul renew its sigh !
O say not with the voice of scorn,
“ The lilies of thy neck are fled, Thine
their vanish'd radiance mourn, The roses of thy cheek are dead."
Too cruel youth, with tears I own
The rose and lily's sad decay; And, sorrowing, wish for thee alone,
Their transient bloom a longer day.
Yet though thine eyes no longer trace
The healthful blush of former charms, Remember that each luckless grace,
O Colin, faded in thy arms !
When Love and Truth together play'd,
So cheerful was the shepherd's song! How happy, too, the rural maid !
How light the minutes wing'd along! But Love has left the sighing vale, And Truth no longer tells her tale.
Sly stealing, see, from scene to scene,
The watchful Jealousy appear ;
The rolling eye, and list’ning ear!
Ah! shall we see no more the hour
That wafted rapture on its wing !
That prattled from its crystal spring?
A PASTORAL SONG.
FAREWELL, O farewell to the day,
That smiling with happiness flew ! Ye verdures and blushes of May,
Ye songs of the linnet, adieu !
In tears from the vale I depart,
In anguish I move from the fair;
Which Fortune has doom'd to despair ?
Love frowns,—and how dark is the hour!
Of rapture, departed the breath! So gloomy the grove and the bow'r,
I tread the pale valley of death.
With envy I wander forlorn,
At the breeze which her beauty has fann'd; And I envy the bird on the thorn,
Who sits watching the crumbs from her hand.
I envy the lark o'er her cot,
Who calls her from slumber, so blest ; Nay, I envy the nightingale's note,
The Siren who sings her to rest.
On her hamlet once more let me dwell,
One took ! (the last comfort !) be mine; O pleasure, and Delia, farewell !
Now, sorrow, I ever am thine.
O NYMPH! of Fortune's smiles beware,
Nor heed the Siren's flattering tongue; She lures thee to the haunts of care,
Where sorrow pours a ceaseless song.
Ah! what are all her piles of gold?
Can those the host of care control ? The splendour which thine eyes behold,
Is not the sunshine of the soul.
To love alone thy homage pay,
The queen of ev'ry true delight; Her smiles with joy shall gild thy day,
And bless the visions of the night.
ECONOMY's a very useful broom,
To catch each straggling pin to make a plumb;
That peep with fearful eyes, and ask a crumb.
Proper economy's a comely thing;
Yet push'd too far, it dulls each finer feeling-
To over-reaching, perjury, and stealing.
E'en when the heart should only think of grief,
Poor Mistress Levi had a luckless son,
Who, rushing to obtain the foremost seat,
In imitation of th' ambitious great, High from the gall’ry, ere the play begun,
He fell all plump into the pit,
Dead in a minute as a nit:
The mother was distracted, raving, wild,
Afflicted every heart with grief around :
Soon as the show'r of tears was somewhat past, And moderately calm th' hysteric blast,
She cast about her eyes in thought profound ; And being with a saving knowledge bless’d, She thus the playhouse manager address’d :
“Sher, I'm de moder of de poor Chew lad,