Come then-ere yet the morning ray Ye droop, fond flowers! But did ye know For there has liberal nature join'd Come then-ere yet the morning ray Has drunk the dew that gems your crest, And drawn your balmiest sweets away; O come, and grace my Anna's breast. O! I should think, that fragrant bed By one short hour of transport there. More blest than me, thus shall ye live While I, alas! no distant date, Mix with the dust from whence I came, Without a friend to weep my fate, Without a stone to tell my name. IV. Gifford. Esq. VERSES WRITTEN TWO YEARS AFTER THE PRECEDING. I WISH I was where Anna lies; For I am sick of ling'ring here; And ev'ry hour affection cries, Go, and partake her humble bier. I wish I could! for when she died I lost my all; and life has prov'd Since that sad hour, a dreary void, A waste unlovely, and unlov'd. But who, when I am turn'd to clay, And pluck the ragged moss away, And weeds that have " no business there?" And who, with pious hand, shall bring The flowers she cherish'd, snow-drops cold, And violets that unheeded spring, To scatter o'er her hallow'd mould? And who, while memory loves to dwell I did it; and would fate allow, Should visit still, should still deploreBut health and strength have left me now, And I, alas! can weep no more. Take then, sweet maid! this simple strain, Thy grave must then undeck'd remain, And can thy soft persuasive look, Thy voice, that might with music vie, Thy spirits, innocent as good, Thy courage, by no ills dismay'd, Thy patience, by no wrongs subdu'd, Ibid. THE SUMMER FADES, I SEE the tints of Summer fade, For dear to me is Autumn's glade, Forth, when the splendours of the day And sweet it is, through coppice near, To catch the sun's departing gleam, While ev'ry breeze to fancy's ear, Conveys a soft celestial theme. Oh, at such hour! when tumult wild Disturbs no more the tranquil frame; When ev'ry thought of earth beguil❜d, Feels all of passion but the name; Oft with Myrtilla have I trod The scene to contemplation giv'n, And as we press'd the dew-bright sod, Look'd upward to a brighter heav'n! The mild moon dwelling on her cheek, Seem'd with her breast to sympathize, And language more than earth could speak, Shone in her soft retiring eyes. And will these hours return no more? May bid remembrance cease to tell Of what we know: and when gone by, These coming hours shall fondly dwell Where mem'ry holds her fonder tie. And, though to Autumn's latest sheaf For Winter, in his arm of might, No brighter moments have I known, |