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She vanish'd like a nightmare-dream,
Three days, bewildered and forlorn,
all the air was balm,
The heavens serenely clear;
When the soft music of a psalm
Came pensive o'er his ear.
""Tis she! 't is she!"- He burst away;
And bending o'er the spot
Where all that once was ELLA lay,
He all beside forgot.
A maniac now, in dumb despair,
He wanders, weeps, and watches there,
And every Eve of pale ST. MARK,
He walks with ELLA in the dark,
AT fond sixteen my roving heart
Was pierced by Love's delightful dart : Keen transport throbb'd through every vein, - I never felt so sweet a pain!
Where circling woods embower'd the glade, I met the dear romantic maid :
I stole her hand,
it shrunk, — but no;
I would not let my captive go.
With all the fervency of youth,
While passion told the tale of truth,
Not with a warmer, purer ray,
But, swifter than the frighted dove,
The angel of Affliction rose,
And in his grasp a thousand woes;
Yet, in the glory of my pride,
and all his wrath defied;
though whirlwinds shook my brain,
And lightnings cleft my soul in twain.
I shunn'd my nymph; -and knew not why
I durst not meet her gentle eye;
I shunn'd her, for I could not bear
Yet, sick at heart with hope delay'd,
The storm blew o'er, and in my breast
'Twas on the merry morn of May,
Then as I climb'd the mountains o'er,
And fancy sketch'd my married lot,
I saw the village steeple rise,
I reach'd the hamlet: - all was gay;
I met a wedding,- stepp'd aside;
There is a grief that cannot feel; It leaves a wound that will not heal;
- it felt not then:
My heart grew cold,
A FIELD FLOWER.
ON FINDING ONE IN FULL BLOOM, ON CHRISTMAS 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
But this small flower, to Nature dear,
It smiles upon the lap of May,
The purple heath and golden broom