Each silvery pine which arose from the dale
Was arrayed in a dew-spangled shroud,
And the streams that meandered adown the green vale,
Had lost the bright beams of the night orb, which pale
Hid her light in the western-most cloud.
O'er mountain and valley I carelessly strayed,
Admiring the beauty of inorn;
For the carpet of Nature was richly inlaid
With whatever could please or adorn.
The breezes which wantonly played round my head,
With fragrance delicious were fraught;
And the face of creation was cheerful and glad,
Whilst in robes of diversified charms she was clad,
That discovered no semblance of fault.
Tranquillity reigned through the flowery grove,
Not a sound or a whisper was heard,
Save the music of zephyrs which wafted above,
And the murmuring each rivulet stirred :
The jessamins flung their sweet odours around,
Their tresses the niignionetts wove;
The roses of Eden grew wild on each mound,
And the boughs of the willow-tree drooped to the
And shaded the flowerets of love.
When an amaranth Bower attracted my sight,
In which, on an emerald throne,
Sat a maiden celestial, in vestments of white,
Whose countenance beam'd like the sun.
The ringlets which sportively played on her face,
Entwined the fresh roses of morn;
Each glance was expressive of holiest peace,
And each feature displayed such a magical grace,
As well might an angel adorn.
The lightly-winged sylphs, who were fluttering around
Were culling the sweets of the grove;
And the rosy-faced Cupids, reclined on the ground,
Were pointing their arrows of love :
But each eye towards the throne would continually
By such beauty divine I was awed,
She seemed like a seraph just fled from above,
With wonder I gazed, 'twas the Angel of Love,
Aud in deep adoration I bowed.
My spirits were bathed in celestial repose,
By the heaven which appeared in her look; She ineffably smiled-with that smile I aroseWhilst a harp from a rose-bed she took : She bent her swect form o'er each tremulous wire, And o'er them her white fingers flung;
The Cupids and Sylphs formed an elegant choir, And to music more sweet than the Orphean lyre, They chaunted the following song
Mortal, listen to our song,
Listen to our dulcet strains,
While the soft ambrosial gale
Floats along the dewy plains.
Where the flowery knolls invite,
Where the streamlets wind their way, There our aerial bands alight
Revel till the dawning day.
Oft our sylphs on moonbeams steal
Where the blooming fair reposes,
Breathe into her ear a tale
Sweeter than the breath of roses.
Softly as the shades of even
Stealing o'er the smiling glade,
Or the gleams of opening heaven
On the Saint's departing shade.
Love upon the youthful heart
Opens all her honied treasures,
Draws it to her priceless mart,
Bids it taste immortal pleasures.
Hark! the chanticleer of morn
Sounds his wakening notes so shrill;
Hark! the shepherd's rustic horn
Echoes to the distant hill.
Fairies, Cupids, Sylphs, and Elves
Mount upon the morning mist;
Leave these woods, and fields, and dells,
Fly to scenes of brighter bliss.
They ceased-but the music still rung through my
Till it died on the ether away;
And the visions ascended their heavenly spheres,
Illumed by the monarch of day.
The valley was suddenly turned to a plain,
And fled was the hyacinth grove:
But, whenever afflicted with sadness or pain,
The fond recollections dispel all their train,
When I think on the Bower of Love.
Illogan, Cornwall.
MY Fanny! I could give thine eye
Hyperbole of praise, love,
And swear the sun that lights the sky
Is darkened by its rays, love!
And, oh! that sweeter far thy breath,
As lip to lip is prest, love,
Than rosy Summer's balmy death
On Autumn's panting breast, love.
But, Fanny, where the glittering leaves,
In fragrant showers are shed, love,
Too oft the blooming heap deceives,
And hides the serpent's head, love:
And feelings fond and pure as ours,
In voiceless rapture swell, love,
And breathe on Flattery's fairy flowers
A desolating spell, love.
My Fanny! zoned with simple truth,
And blessing thus, and blest, love,
With Heaven's good grace to guide and soothe,
When stormy ills molest, love;
With hopes that bloom beyond the grave,
Our lives will glide along, love,
As peaceful as the lucid wave,
And sweet as Seraph's song, love!
THE WINTER'S FIRE.
THE wintry tempests howl around,
And heaven and earth, and skies confound;
The Winter's Fire can joy impart,
Circle sweet pleasure round the heart,
And spread, replete with every grace,
Contentment's mantle o'er each face,
When round the hearth a social scene
Of family happiness is placed;
For Love's domestic, winning mien,
And sweet Affection's smile serene,
Are there in every feature traced.
There too, a wreath sweet Friendship twines,
And there the social virtue shines,
Which rural scenes do most afford,
That welcomes all to garnished board.
The gambols of the infant there
Sweetly soothe external care;
Whilst its winning, sportive play,
Chases all thoughts of ill away.
There, circling in the cheerful round,
With sadly-sweet, or pleasing sound,
To joy, or sympathize with friends,
Its charms the sweet piano lends;
And carolling with tuneful art
The song or hymn to feeling heart,
With human melody appeals,
And rapt attention often steals.
Such, such the joys that winter's fire
Can o'er the social circle spread;
Long, long may such delights inspire,
And long their sweet endearment shed.
WHAT! Richard with yesterday's wine in his head!
'Tis a libel! so pr'ythee take warning-
Know Richard went sober and steady to bed,
For he only gets drunk-of a morning!
HARK! what sounds disturb the air
What form is yonder roaming,
With zoneless waist and bosom bare,
With raven-like dishevelled hair,
So carelessly,
So fearlessly,
That rock's o'erhanging crag doth
Around whose rough wave-beaten base
The troubled ocean's foaming?
That form, he said, (a deep-drawn sigh
Now from his bosom parted)
Now wandering on the mountain high,
Knew what was truth, what love, what joy,
Till man betrayed
The lovely maid;
He stole her heart, her peace, and left
Of sense, almost of life bereft,
Claudine, the broken hearted!
How wildly waves her lily hand!
See with what strong convulsive motion
Upheaves her storm-bared bosom bland!
Now see! oh, see! the loosening sand
Betrays the tread
Of the heedless maid:
Now headlong down the rocky steep,
Now splashing, struggling in the deep,
She's buried in the foaming ocean!
"Twere vain that angry surge to dare!
So slowly we departed:
We could not rescue from despair!
Now, ever when I wander near
That rocky steep,
That foaming deep,
I think then of the crazy maid,
By man perfidiously betrayed,
Claudine, the broken hearted!
Newark-upon-Trent, Sept. 1820.
|