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But he has fortune's worst withstood,
And happiness can never miss ;
MARY! dear maid! for whom I sigh,
For whom my breast will ever burn, Look on thy lover with an eye,
To bid him hope a soft return.
That tender look, that flowing hair,
That cheek that shames the vernal rose, First caught me in love's silken snare,
And robb’d my heart of its repose.
When calm indifference was mine,
The swift hour fled serenely by ; But now, alas! that form divine
Has banish'd all tranquillity.
Oh come then, Mary! gentlest maid !
On me one angel smile bestow; The precious gift shall be repaid
With all that love and truth can show.
My lips shall hourly speak thy praise,
FROM M. VOLTAIRE.
e to love's joys would you invite ?"
Then show me love's forgotten way, Then join to the cold gloom of night
The sprightly morning's gladd’ning ray.
From the gay raptures of that scene,
Where festive love prolongs the day, From Bacchus and the cyprian queen,
Alas! time beckons me away.
Since old, then let him make me sage,
And teach me well myself to know; Who joins the wings of love to age,
Adds wretchedness to age's woe.
Let me quit youth's voluptuous plan,
And reason's dictates once believe; Two moments make the age of man,
One then to wisdom let me give.
Yet art thou then for ever fled,
Thou dear delusion's real joy! And flatt'ring hope by fancy fed,
Free from the truths that peace destroy.
That twice we die too well I know,
To cease to love, and cease to please ; This, this is death in all its woe
To cease to live is peace and ease.
'Twas thus in sad reflection lost,
I linger'd still on pleasure's ground; Still loath to quit the flow'ry coast,
Tho' there, for me, no flow'r was found.
When lo! with decent lovely mien,
Soft friendship caught my wand'ring sight; She seem'd to vie with beauty's queen,
And shone more placid, tho' less bright.
Enamour'd with her modest grace,
The beams of comfort o'er me shone;
WRITTEN ON THE BANKS OF A RIVER.
Gentle stream, on thy banks let me pensively rove,
Thy shade and thy murmurs are welcome to me; . Thy sound on the still ear of ev’ning I love,
And mem’ry's deep sorrows are deepen'd by thee.
But why, gentle stream, flows this murmur of grief?'
Why responsive to mine seems thy deep swelling tone ? Thou mourn'st not like me for a pang past relief,
Thou mourn’st not, like me, for the days that are gone.
Still useful thy waves as they flow unconfin'd,
See the season's rich produce deriv'd from their course; While the stream of my time leaves no produce behind,
But the sigh of regret, and the pang of remorse.
Then mine, silly stream, shou'd these deep murmurs be,
While thy glassy wave shou'd exulting flow on; At time unimprov'd thou repin'st not like me,
Nor vainly regrettest the days that are gone.
Oh! were thy clear stream of the power possessid,
By poets bestow'd on the Lethe of old,
And the warm touch of mem’ry ever lie cold.
Then I to the future shou'd hasten unmov’d,
As past useless hours wou'd no longer be known, Forgotten each folly my thoughtless youth lov’d,
No more I shou'd weep o'er the days that are gone.
But vain is the thought-as the shadow the form,
So surely must mem’ry past actions attend; Ah, me! her fell influence wakes terror's fierce storm,
But see, to allay it, repentance descend !
To cheer me, her daughter, Amendment, she leads,
Together they breathe the encouraging tone; But the breast of repentance still tenderly bleeds,
And heaves a deep sigh for the days that are gone.
And as faithful reflection at midnight's still hour,
To the grave of a friend loves to hasten unseen, Whilst the thought, that no tears can lost blessings restore,
Makes the pang of remembrance more painfully keen.
So I, tho' Amendment with soul-soothing aid,
May have banish'd the pangs which long I have known, Will haste, gentle stream, to thy banks and thy shade, A requiem to breathe to the days that are gone.