As on she moves with hesitating grace, Spare the fine tremors of her feeling frame! At each response the sacred rite requires, O'er her fair face what wild emotions play! Ah soon thine own confest, extatic thought, That hand shall strew each flinty path with flow'rs; And those blue eyes, with mildest lustre fraught, Gild the calm current of domestic hours. From a MS. A GIPSY BALLAD. A WANDERING Gipsy, sirs, am I, No rooms so fine, nor gay attire, Alas! no friends come near our cot! But fortunes here I come to tell; Then yield me, gentle sir, your hand;Amid those lines what thousands dwell! And bless me what a heap of land! This surely, sir, must pleasing be, Peter Pindar. TO A LADY WHO HAD LOST HER GARTER. By a Gentleman going to the West Indies. CELIA, the captive garter's mine, As soon the soldier who has run The garter is, and shall be mine, Shall lose the bliss it had from you; It shall upon my bosom heave, Or clasp me in a soft embrace; Ah no! with cold indiff'rence you Too generous to shew disdain. When distant from my native land, Divided from its other half, Sad emblem of my own distress; 'Twill calmly hear what bashful love To you durst ne'er presume t'express. And when at last some noxious gale, Shall lay me in my silent grave; It shall present you to my view, To arm me 'gainst the dread of death; Shall hear me fondly talk of you, And bless you with my latest breath. Gentleman's Magazine. ODE TO CONTENT. To thee, mild source of homefelt joy!, To thee I vow this artless lay, For, nymph divine! no cares alloy, No griefs pollute thy halcyon clay. Though soft the moon her mellow light O'er yonder mould'ring tow'r hath shed, Though soft as sleeps her beam on night, Yet softer sleeps thy, peaceful head. For thee, the fairy sprite of morn, Her sweet, her varied dream shall weave; For thee, thy wood-girt thatch adorn, The calm, the golden light of eve. For thee, the cool stream murm'ring slow, When wilt thou haunt my straw-roof'd cot, I ne'er will ask of purple pride, Nor will I ask of power to whirl, In terror cloth'd, the scythed car ; And, mad with fury, shout to hurl The dark, the deadly spear of war. |