TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN. Her eyes are dim with many a tear, That once were guiding stars to mine: Her fond heart throbs with many a fear!— I cannot bear to see thee shine. For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave, To roam in climes unkind and new: Ha! com'st thou now so late to mock To memory's fond regrets the prey, Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn! Go mix thee with thy kindred clay! 278 CLARE. MARY LEE. I HAVE traced the valleys fair Wilt thou deign the wreath to wear, They are not flowers of Pride, For they graced the dingle-side; Yet they grew in Heaven's smile, My gentle Mary Lee! Can they fear thy frowns the while, Though offered by me? Here's the lily of the vale, That perfumed the morning gale, My fairy Mary Lee! All so spotless and so pale, Like thine own purity. My esteem for thee. Surely flowers can bear no blame, MARY LEE. Here's the violet's modest blue, That 'neath hawthorns hides from view, My gentle Mary Lee, Would show whose heart is true, While it thinks of thee. While they choose each lowly spot. I'm as lowly too, indeed, My charming Mary Lee; So I've brought the flowers to plead, And win a smile from thee. Here's a wild rose just in bud; 'Tis the first in all the wood Though a blush is scarcely seen, My angel, Mary Lee, To speak unless the flower Can make excuse for me. Though they deck no princely halls.. In bouquets for glittering balls, My gentle Mary Lee! Richer hues than painted walls Will make them dear to thee; My charming Mary Lee! Love would make them dearer still, That offers them to thee. My wreathed flowers are few, They may seem as trifles too- Some may boast a richer prize Under pride and wealth's disguise; None a fonder offering bore Than this of mine to thee; And can true love wish for more? Surely not, Mary Lee! BRAINARD. SALMON RIVER. Hic viridis tenera prætexit arundine ripas "Tis a sweet stream-and so, 'tis true, are all That undisturbed, save by the harmless brawl Of mimic rapid or slight waterfall, Pursue their way By mossy bank, and darkly waving wood, But yet there's something in its humble rank, There's much in its wild history, that teems Havoc has been upon its peaceful plain, And blood has dropped there, like the drops of rain; The corn grows o'er the still graves of the slainAnd many a quiver, 282 |