'Tis time enough, when its flowers decay, To think of the thorns of Sorrow; And Joy, if left on the stem to-day, May wither before to-morrow. Then why, dearest! so long Let the sweet moments fly over? Though now, blooming and young, Thou hast me devoutly thy lover. Yet time from both, in his silent lapse, Some treasure may steal or borrow; Thy charms may be less in bloom, perhaps, Or I less in love to-morrow. WHEN ON THE LIP THE SIGH WHEN on the lip the sigh delays, As if 'twould linger there for ever; When eyes would give the world to gaze, Yet still look down, and venture never; When, though with fairest nymphs we There let it lie, growing fonder and rove, There's one we dream of more than any If all this is not real love, fonder And should Dame Fortune turn truant to me, 'Tis something wondrous like it, Why,-let her go-I've a treasure be Fanny! To think and ponder, when apart, And yet when near, with heart to heart, yond her, As long as my heart's out at interest with thee! Sit mute, and listen to their beating: OH! CALL IT BY SOME BETTER To see but one bright object move, I prithee say what is, my Fanny! When Hope foretells the brightest, best, reckons When Passion drives us to the west, When all turns round, below, above, NAME. OH! call it by some better name, For Friendship is too cold, Whose shrine must be of gold; Imagine something purer far, More free from stain of clay, And if thy lip for love like this No mortal word can frame, Go, ask of angels what it is, And call it by that name! POOR WOUNDED HEART! Thy hour of rest is come; Thou soon wilt reach thy home, This life has been to thee Poor breaking heart, poor breaking heart, farewell! There-broken heart, Poor broken heart, farewell! The pang is o'er The parting pang is o'er, Thou now wilt bleed no more, Like waves whose strife is past, On death's cold shore thus early lying, Thou sleep'st in peace at lastPoor broken heart, poor broken heart, farewell! THE EAST INDIAN. COME May, with all thy flowers. Thy sweetly-scented thorn, Thy cooling evening showers, Thy fragrant breath at morn : When May-flies haunt the willow, When May-buds tempt the bee, Then o'er the shining billow My love will come to me. From Eastern Isles she's winging PALE BROKEN FLOWER! PALE broken flower! what art can now recover thee? Torn from the stem that fed thy rosy breath In vain the sunbeams seek To warm that faded cheek! The dews of heaven, that once like balm fell over thee, Now are but tears, to weep thy early death So droops the maid whose lover hath forsaken her; Thrown from his arms, as lone and lost as thou; In vain the smiles of all Like sunbeams round her fall The only smile that could from death awaken her, That smile, alas! is gone to others So, my pretty Rose-tree, thou my mistress shalt be, And the only one now I shall sigh to.' When the beautiful hue of thy cheek through the dew Of morning is bashfully peeping, 'Sweet tears,' I shall say (as I brush them away), So blithe that even the slumbers Which hung around us seem gone, Then, as each to his favourite sultana 'At least there's no art in this weep-Then, with morning's rosy twinkle, ing.' Although thou shouldst die to Again we're up and TELL HER, OH TELL HER. TELL her, oh tell her, the lute she left lying Beneath the green arbour, is still lying there! Breezes, like lovers, around it are sighing, But not a soft whisper replies to their prayer. SHINE out, Stars! let heaven assemble All to grace this eve of May. her, oh tell her, the tree that, in going, Beside the green arbour she playfully set, Lovely as ever is blushing and blowing And not a bright leaflet has fallen from it yet. Nights of song and nights of splendour, | Which smiles, and weeps, and trembles, Filled with joys too sweet to lastJoys that, like your star-light tender, While they shone no shadow cast: Though all other happy hours From my fading memory fly, Of that star-light, of those bowers, Not a beam, a leaf, shall die! OUR FIRST YOUNG LOVE. OUR first young love resembles That short but brilliant ray, Through April's earliest day. No, no-all life before us; Howe'er its lights may play, Can shed no lustre o'er us Like that first April ray. Our summer sun may squander Bring all the light it may, AN EVENING IN GREECE. 1827. IN thus connecting together a series of Songs by a thread of poetical narrative, the object has been to combine Recitation with Music, so as to enable a greater number of persons to join in the performance, by enlisting, as readers, those who may not feel themselves competent to take a part as singers. The Island of Zia, where the scene is laid, was called by the ancients Ceos, and was the birthplace of Simonides, Bacchylides, and other eminent persons. An account of its present state may be found in the Travels of Dr. Clarke, who says, that it appeared to him to be the best cultivated of any of the Grecian Isles.'-Vol. vi. p. 174. T. M. |