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BY thy blue eye's languid roll,
With dewy lustre gleaming!
By thy smiles bright beaming!
By the tear that dimm'd thine eye,
When tales of woe I told thee! By thy bosom's stealing sigh!
Mine I shall behold thee.
Talk not of indifference now,
While in every feature Looks, more strong than words, will show
That 'tis not in thy nature.
Thou wast form'd to love again,
And prove thy votry's blessing; To feel the joy, to feel the pain,
Severe beyond expressing.
Not for pity's fruitless tear,
Nor friendship’s cold emotion, Not for words that die in air,
Flows my fond devotion:
But sparkling eyes and changeful cheek,
The lover's presence greeting, Love warm answering love, I seek,
Rapture, rapture meeting.
OH! wert thou hail'd the sole
Yet I would never love thee:
For now I know thy dark wiles
No more I pant with hope or fear;
For I no longer love thee,
Yet bright still rolls thy dark eye,
And curling flows thy glossy hair,
As when I first did love thee,
But ah! thy flinty cold heart
Ill suits thy beauty's treacherous glow
Ah, woe to him that loves thee!
With what true love I woo'd thee,
Each sleepless night sad witness bears, My breast that glow'd with sighs for thee, My wan cheek wet with bitter tears:
All told how much I lov'd thee,
But broken is the fond spell;
My fate no more depends on thee;
For none can ever love thee,
ON READING CHARLOTTE SMITH'S SONNETS.
SMIT by misfortune in life's early day,
And seeing every budding pleasure die, The heart-struck mourner turns forlorn away
From where Hope waves her gilded banners high; And where some woodland streamlet murmurs by,
To lonely wild flowers bids her numbers flow, Or when the tempest darkens in the sky,
On the chill sea-beach vents her bitter woe.
Fruitless regrets! ye tear the wounded heart,
And point the arrow of each coming ill; For never shall that bosom cease to smart
That fondly cherishes its power to feel.“ No!-to oblivion rather let me flee, Forget what once I was-nor think what I must be.
ON THE EARLY APPROACH OF WINTER,
IN THE ISLAND OF ST. JOHN's. OCTOBER 1803.
AH stop!-retire!--nor yet invade,
Rude Winter! the declining year: Stay till the woodland honours fade;
Stay till the mellowing leaf be sere!
Red sets the sun at chilly eve,
While rising winds howl loud around; And see! (quite lost its curling wave)
The pool in glittering ice-bands bound!
Too well these signs thy reign declare;
The shrinking waters own thy spell; The spirits of the frighten'd air
Bid warmth, and day, and joy, farewel.
Ah Winter, spare awhile the year,
Nor nip it rudely ere thy time: Return thee to thy native sphere;
'Bide yet in Greenland's polar clime.
There forms that love thy pallid reign
Shall willing bend beneath thy laws, And over every snow-clad plain
Huge shaggy monsters growl applause.