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On IRAK's plains, on TYGRIS' tide,
SAY, if this heart should harbour love,
Or, would'st thou bid it cease to bloom,
O rather let me nurse it here,
Tho' cold and dead my bosom, And water it with sorrow's tear, A timid, unknown blossom.
MR. JAMES IRVING.
Go to thy darling, false one! go!
And gaze enraptur'd on her charms, Sink on her breast of melting snow,
And court her fond luxuriant arms.
Murmur again the ardent vow,
That mingles hope with fond desire, Now paints the lover's wish-and now Beholds a woe-worn wife expire.
I weep not this! my day is o'er,
All I have done, and suffer'd, vain ; Nor pity can my soul implore,
From those who triumph in my pain. Yet know-whene'er thy wish is sped,
When thou canst claim thy bosom's bride, When she lies number'd with the dead,
Who mourn'd and blest thee till she died; When thou shalt revel light as air,
And laugh at care, and banish toil, For her thou lov'st the bliss will share, And pour a zest on fortune's smile;
Yet come it will, the fatal hour,
When clouds these brilliant scenes o'ercast, When cank'ring care asserts his pow'r,
Or fiercely blows misfortune's blast.
When keen vexation sours the mind,
Then wilt thou learn too late, how dear
That patient spirit wont to be, Whose love, submissive as sincere, Endur'd each angry taunt from thee.
Who, proud thy virtues to reveal,
Thy genius or thy wit to scan, And wise thy failings to conceal,
In the beloved shew'd the man.
Whose friendship active, constant, mild,
And yet upheld thee as an host.
Who, when her dearest hopes were flown,
And sought to hide them in the grave.
Go to thy darling false one! go!
The storms of life around thee howl, And thou shalt find her heart is snow, And dark as Erebus her soul.
She who to confidence like mine,
Oh! when I think on what thou art,
And angry sorrow melt to love.
Go, false one! lov'd one! learn to know
More poignant than the venom'd steel,
And blighted hope's corroding grief,
And dark despair that spurns relief.
FROM THE GREEK
τὸ ρόδον κ. τ. λ.
How fragrant blows
I'll gather it to-morrow:
AT HIGHGATE, MIDDLESEX, JULY 9, 1810.
BY T. PARK, ESQ.
Ir was a spectacle of hallow'd joy,
Though tears it drew from fond parental eyes,
A verger first appears with mitred mace;