But ah, no power of thine can reach her heart, Proof to that passion which her beauty gave; Snatch then, O snatch from Death the friendly dart, And hide my sorrows in the silent grave!
Four days are pass'd, four tedious days of pain,
Since these sad eyes beheld my Love depart,
Four days are yet to come, e'er I again
Shall see the beauteous sovereign of my
While fond impatience in my bosom burns,
And the slow hours insult my restless haste,
Ah who can teach me, till my Love returns,
In easy indolence the time to waste?
Vain search! no ease will selfish Love allow;
No power hath art to lull my cares asleep:
Pleasure, and mirth, and smiles are irksome now;
And my sole comfort is to sigh and weep.
On swifter wings I bade the moments fly;
But they perverse have doubled their delay;
For grief hath banish'd slumber from my eye,
And night partakes the sorrows of the day.
Nor think, my friends, that causeless is my pain,
The hours you count not by a Lover's mind;
Four tedious days of absence I sustain,
And justly dread the heavier half behind.
While distant strays my Love, the poison'd dart
Of jealousy hath struck me with despair:
And doubts arise where reason has no part,
Surmises vain, and self-created care.
By glittering fops, and courtly speech beset,
Can a frail woman's faith unshaken prove?
And will she not a wretch like me forget,
Who only plead fidelity and love?
Ah no!—and now what extacy I feel!
False are my doubts, and vain my scrupulous fear-
I know the hand, I know the faithful seal,
This Letter proves my Laura's love sincere.
Yes, Fair-one, yes, thy love, thy truth I see;
To my fond breast I'll press each tender line:
Kiss the dear words that bid me think on thee;
And bless the period that concludes thee mine.
On thee I'll think, till four long days shall give
In thy lov'd presence more substantial bliss;
Then shall my arms their real wish receive,
And my lips glow beneath a warmer kiss.
PARTING, WRITTEN IN 1766,
I go, my Love; and till we meet again,
Let Hope and Constancy the time beguile :
Again to meet! that prospect shall restrain
The tear that starts through my dissembled smile.
Farewell! but there is finish'd all my boast-
That tender accent falters on my tongue;
And I must weep for that dear object lost,
On which I gaz'd so fondly and so long.
O stop! O turn; for I have much to say-
One word! one look! I cannot leave thee so-
-Ah me, she takes a distant, different way;
And I unheard, unanswer'd vent my woe.
From her soft voice no more I catch the sound;
No more her beauties grace my happy side:
I call, I search in vain, no more is found
My sweet companion, and my promis'd bride.
Back to those happier scenes, Remembrance, fly!
Thy lenient aid my sorrows shall remove :
For thou from those dear moments canst supply
Full many a proof propitious to my love.
Much tho' I lov'd, I found that love repaid;
And seem'd of all men happy o'er the rest;
Consenting Beauty heal'd the wound it made;
And Love enslav'd me but to make me blest.
My lips the story of my bosom told,
Check'd by no scornful, no unkind reply;
Her favouring glances bade my tongue be bold,
And mutual passion kindled in her
eye:
The blush soft spreading o'er her downcast face,
The sudden sigh half-rising, half-suppress'd,
That coy distress which heightens every grace,
In silent eloquence her love confess'd.
How sweet to snatch her not-unwilling hand,
And all delighted on her charms to gaze;
While mix'd with many a kiss we fondly plann'd
The tender conduct of connubial days!
Each social Virtue decks her gentle mind;
And stedfast Honour waves his banners there;
So chaste a temple Love was proud to find;
And Truth proclaims her parting vow sincere.
While sweet Remembrance thus relieves my heart,
Ah why should grief so fair a prospect sour!
Yes, we shall meet, and meet no more to part,
And Heaven and Love shall bless th' expected hour,
Then fare thee well! and to thy constant mind
Still be my memory dear, tho' I am gone;
Still be each thought, each tender wish confin'd
To me whose heart is full of thee alone:
Fond Hope the while shall cheer my drooping soul,
In sweet impatience shall the time employ,
Shall chide the lazy moments as they roll,
And soothe my grief with thoughts of future joy.
INSCRIPTION at the Entrance of a BURIAL GROUND for NEGRO SLAVES*.
BY THE LATE BRYAN EDWARDS, ESQ.
STRANGER! Whoe'er thou art, with reverence tread;
Lo! these, the silent mansions of the dead!
His life of labour o'er, the wearied slave
Here finds, at length; soft quiet in the grave.
View not, with proud disdain, the unsculptur'd heap,
Where injur'd innocence forgets to weep,
Nor idly deem, although not here are found
The solemn aisle and consecrated ground,
The spot less sacred:-o'er the turf-built shrine,
Where Virtue sleeps, presides the Power Divine.
* On a plantation in Jamaica, belonging to the late Mr. Bryan Edwards, that gentleman's negroes had chosen for their burialground, a retired spot, in a grove of piemento or all-spice. It was a place extremely solemn and singularly beautiful; and Mr. Edwards directed, that, in case of his death in Jamaica, he should be buried in the midst of them. As the ground was exposed to the intrusions of cattle, he caused a fence to be raised round it, and inscribed these lines on the little wicket at the entrance.
* MOLINÆUS'S CAT, MITISSA.
AN AMPLIFIED TRANSLATION, WITH ADDITIONS,
BY THE LATE REV. T. COLE, LL.B.
MITISSA, well-bred Puss, descended
From cats of Cyprus, much commended;
In whom more fondling arts are seen,
Than had that wheedling Cyprian Queen;
Thy beauteous coat unrival'd shines
With various hues in waving lines:
More soft and yielding than the vest
That warms the turtle's downy breast:
More delicate than virgin's face,
O'erspread with tender blooming grace,
A much more cunning thievish elf,
Than the sly pilf'ring fox himself.
A perfect monkey in disguise,
With tricks as droll, and looks as wise;
Nor less alert than squirrel found,
To skip and frisk with nimble bound.
When through my garden walks I stray,
How pleas'd art thou to lead the way!
How prompt to hint, by gestures courting,
Thy longings for a little sporting!
And when, in playful circles quick,
Around thy head I twirl my stick,
Close couching first, with wav'ring view,
Thy eyes alone its track pursue;
Then eager springing from the ground,
With greedy grasp thou hug'st it round.
Perhaps MOLINEUX.
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