Imagens das páginas

I shunn'd my nymph ;-and knew not why
1 durst not meet her gentle eye:
I shunn'd her-for I could not bear
To marry her to my despair.

Yet, sick at heart with hope delay'd,
Oft the dear image of that maid
Glanced, like the rainbow, o'er my mind,
And promised happiness behind.

my breast

The storm blew o'er, and in
The halcyon Peace rebuilt her nest ;
The storm blew o'er, and clear and mild
The sea of youth and pleasure smiled.

'Twas on the merry morn of May,
To Hannah's cot I took my way:
My eager hopes were on the wing,
Like swallows sporting in the spring.

Then as I climb'd the mountains o’er,
I lived my wooing days once more :
And fancy sketch'd my married lot,
My wife, my children, and my cot!

I saw the village steeple rise,-
My soul sprang, sparkling, in my eyes ;
The rural bells rang sweet and clear,-
My fond heart listen’d in mine ear.

I reach'd the hamlet :-all was gay ;
I love a rustic holiday !
I met a wedding,-stepp'd aside ;
It pass'd ;—my HANNAH was the bride !

-There is a grief that cannot feel ; It leaves a wound that will not heal ; -My heart grew cold,—it felt not then ; When shall it cease to feel again?



DAY, 1803.

There is a flower, a little flower,
With silver crest and golden eye,
That welcomes every changing hour,
And weathers every sky.

The prouder beauties of the field
In gay but quick succession shine,
Race after race their honours yield,
They flourish and decline.

But this small flower, to Nature dear,
While moons and stars their courses run,
Wreathes the whole circle of the year,
Companion of the sun.

It smiles upon the lap of May,
To sultry August spreads its charms,
Lights pale October on his way,
And twines December's arms.

The purple heath and golden broom, On moory mountains catch the gale. O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume, The violet in the vale.

But this bold floweret climbs the hill, Hides in the forest, haunts the glen, Plays on the margin of the rill, Peeps round the fox's den.

Within the garden's cultured round It shares the sweet carnation's bed; And blooms on consecrated ground In honour of the dead.

The lambkin crops its crimson gem,
The wild-bee murmurs on its breast,
The blue-fly bends its pensile stem,
Light o'er the sky-lark's nest.

'Tis FLORA's page:-in every place, In

every season fresh and fair, It opens with perennial grace, And blossoms every where.

On waste and woodland, rock and plain,
Its humble buds unheeded rise ;
The Rose has but a summer-reign,
The DAISY never dies.

« AnteriorContinuar »