Sivut kuvina

I will not roam, tho' beauty's queen,

Herself, with every witching air, Strew'd roses o'er my garden scene,

And planted all her myrtles there.

Ah! no, I cannot, must not stray,

Tho? May invite with voice divine: Go, bid thy airy sylphs display

Thy charms to other eyes than mine. My vagrant heart, sweet child of spring,

Indeed thou striv'st in vain to bind; E’en now it steals thy zephyr's wing

And leaves this blooming scene behind.

Where rests it, Mary, thou canst tell;

To thee its dear desires are known; O does it in thy bosom dwell? Si And was it welcom’d by thine own?

*** G.


Sweet Music! nymph of silver tongue!
Tuning thy harp to Lydian song,
Come dancing on with measured pace,
Whilst list'ning constellations gaze,
And the torrent, rough and hoar,
Tempers soft his sullen roar;
And those joyous mountains near
Stoop their haughty heads to hear;
And planets to thy magic strains
Dance thro' heaven's cerulean plains!

Come Music! mistress of sweet sound,
Who in celestial worlds art found;
The queen of heaven's high minstrelsy,
With angels shouting jubilee!:

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O come! but not with drum or fife,
Or brazen trumpet, boding strife,
As thou art wont when (threat'ning wan)
BELLONA shakes her bloody train!

O come! but not with merry strains, To which the swain, on rústic plains With jolly youths and maidens coy, Shakes his frantic limbs with joy! Now such as jovial Bacchus sung, What time old Greece with madd’ning transport rung! Nor such, as crowds theatric suit, Which hold the list’ning audience mute, While their giddy heads turn round, Swimming in a sea of sound! But come, mild queen of harmony, With gentler notes, kindly try Love-soothing sounds, with smoother tongue, Than Echo to a siren's song; Which near some fair, but fatal isles, The sailor heard, and Ocean stood in smiles!

O! come, enchanting queen of sound,
And breathe thy mellowest notes around!
Such notes as love-sick virgins play,'
While o'er their cheeks the tear-drops stray;
Or such as amorous nightingales
At evening, warble in the vales,
Whilst even the demons of the night,
Tho'hell-born listen with delight,
And quitting their enchantments dread,
Stalk around with silent tread!
Or such as swans, on ocean lying,
Oft sing, as poets feign, when dying,
Whilst like heaps of new-fall’n snow,
They seem to melt among the waves below!
0! let thy carols, sweet and clear,
Fall gentler, softer on mine ear,

Than moon-light on a hill of snow,
Beheld afar, from some deep vale below!
Pour in the silver-sounding flute,
Thy mellow breath! awake the lute!
Blow! blow the sweetly speaking horn,
From some lone stream or cliff forlorn;
Whilst the joyous echoes round,
Prolong the sweetly tremulous sound;
Strike! strike with lily hands the wire,
Of golden harps, that joy inspire,
For ah! with love, with love I die,
0! ease my pains with melody!





Early on a pleasant day,
In the poets' month of May;
Field and forest look'd so fair,
So refreshing was the air,
That, despite of morning dew,
Forth I walk'd where, tangling grew,
Many a thorn and briery bush,
Where the red-breast and the thrush,
Gaily rais'd their early lay,

Thankful for returning day;
Every thicket, bush, and tree,
Swell'd the grateful harmony.
As it sweetly swept along,
Echo seem'd to catch the song;
But the plain was wide and clear,
Echo never whisper'd there.
From a neighb’ring mocking-bird
Came the answering note I heard;
Near a murmuring streamlet's side,
Perch'd on branch extending wide.

Low, and soft, the song began;
Scarce I caught it, as it ran
Through the ring-dove's plaintive wail,
Chattering jay, and whistling quail,
Twittering sparrow, cat-bird's cry,
Red-bird's whistle, robin's sigh,
Black-bird, blue-bird, swallow, lark;
Each his native note might mark.
Oft he tried the lesson o'er,
Each time louder than before;
Burst at length the finish’d song:
Loud and clear it pour'd along.
All the choir in silence heard,
Hush'd before the wondrous bird.
All transported and amaz’d,
Scarcely breathing, long I gaz'd.
Now it reach'd the loudest swell;
Lower, lower, now it fell;
Lower, lower, lower still,
Scarce it sounded o'er the rill.
Now the warbler ceas'd to sing;
And I saw him spread his wing;
And I saw him take his flight,
Other regions to delight.
Then, in most poetic wise,
I began to moralize.

In this bird can fancy trace
An emblem of the rhyming race.
Ere with heaven's immortal fire,
Loud they strike the quivering wire;
Ere in high, majestic song,
Thundering wars the verse along;
Soft and low each note they sing,
Soft they try each varied string;
Till each power is tried and known;
Then the kindling spark is blown.
Thus, perchance, has Maro sung;
Thus, his harp has Milton strung;

Thus, immortal Avon's child;
Thus, O Scott! thy witch-notes wild;
. Thus, has Pope's melodious lyre
Rung each note with Homer's fire;
Thus, did Campbell's war-blast roar
Round the cliffs of Elsinore;
Thus, he dug the soldier's grave,
Iser! by thy purpled wave.

c. F.



GREEN Springs the turf on Henry's grave,
And fairer flow'rs successive rise;
Soft vernal show'rs its bosom lave,
And Zephyrs sport where Genius lies.
Does Nature seek her gifts to pour
On her fond vot’ry's lowly bed?
Ah! never poet lov'd her more,
Or plac'd more garlands on her head.
Yet here will weeping Friendship dwell,
And to its sad and tearful eye,
Less gaudy scenes might suit as well,
Less vernal bloom, less azure sky.

Let not the youthful poet say,
That Nature mourns where Virtue sleeps;
For here the dancing sun-beams play,
And here the moon her night-watch keeps.
And be it so; nor will we grieve

That life returns to him who gave;
'T is ours to hope, submit, believe,
And fix our view beyond the grave.
Poet belov'd! and could'st thou think

Thy worth would ever be forgot?


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