IN vain we fondly strive to trace And many a sage and learned skull The argument most apt and ample For instance, then, if Nature's care LABEL FIRST. Within this form there lies enshrin'd TO ROSA. WRITTEN DURING ILLNESS. THE wisest soul, by anguish torn, But love's an essence of the soul, And surely, when the touch of Death Oh Rosa, when, to seek its sphere, And as, in fabled dreams of old, So thou, fair planet, not unled, Let other spirits range the sky, And play around each starry gem; I'll bask beneath that lucid eye, Nor envy worlds of suns to them. And when that heart shall cease to beat, SONG. THE wreath you wove, the wreath you wove If Pity's hand had stol'n from Love If every rose with gold were tied, ON THE DEATH OF A LADY. SWRET spirit! if thy airy sleep Nor sees my tears nor hears my sighs, Then will I weep, in anguish weep, Till the last heart's drop fills mine eyes. But if thy sainted soul can feel, And mingles in our misery; Then, then my breaking heart I'll sealThou shalt not hear one sigh from me. The beam of morn was on the stream, But sullen clouds the day deform: Like thee was that young, orient beam, Like death, alas, that sullen storm! So link'd thy soul was with the sky; Yet, ah, we held thee all so dear, We thought thou wert not form'd to die. INCONSTANCY. AND do I then wonder that Julia deceives me, When surely there's nothing in nature more common? She vows to be true, and while vowing she leaves me And could I expect any more from a woman? Oh, woman! your heart is a pitiful treasure; And Mahomet's doctrine was not too severe, When he held that you were but materials of plea sure, And reason and thinking were out of your sphere. By your heart, when the fond sighing lover can win it, He thinks that an age of anxiety's paid; But, oh, while he's blest, let him die at the minute If he live but a day, he'll be surely betray'd. THE NATAL GENIUS. A DREAM. To... THE MORNING OF HER BIRTHDAY. IN witching slumbers of the night, That on thy natal moment smil'd; To crown my lovely mortal child. With olive-branch I bound thy head, Which was to bloom through all thy years; Nor yet did I forget to bind Love's roses, with his myrtle twin'd, And dew'd by sympathetic tears. Such was the wild but precious boon Bade me to Nona's image pay; How blest around thy steps I'd play! |