Yes, winter, though icicles hang on thy brow, Yet Scotia will ever exult in thy reign, For she owes thee the birth of a Burns. When your bellowing tempests, incessant and deep, Do you visit a spot where his fame is unknown, Yes, yes, the bright fame of the bard will decay, For nature itself will expire: But the last lover's song, o'er the wreck of mankind, Will echo his heavenly lyre. CCVIII. HAVE YOU NOT SEEN THE TIMID TEAR. Have you not seen the timid tear, Steal gently from mine eye? And can you think my love is chill, And can you rend, by doubting still, To you my soul's affections move, My life has been a task of love, If all your tender faith is o'er, CCIX. THE SAILOR BOY'S ADIEU. The boatswain's shrill whistle pip'd all hands ahoy, The word, to weigh anchor was given, When pale turn'd the cheek of the poor Sailor Boy, His eyes were uplifted to heaven. And was it dismay that affected his breast, Or dread of the deep that pervaded his feelings? Oh! no, 'twas a passion more keenly exprest, 'Twas the throb of affection, 'twas Nature's appealings. so home and to kindred he'd bidden farewell, He strove his sensations to smother, But mem'ry had bound round his bosom her spell, "Be true to thy king, and ne'er shrink from thy duty, "The furrows of age on my temples are spread, "Thy sister has nought but her virtue and beauty.” The Sailor Boy's cheek was bedew'd with a tear, With hearty huzzas his young bosom they cheer, Aloft up the shrouds to his duty he flew, His heart glow'd with courage, all obstacles braving, From his neck his dear sister's last token he drew, The pledge of her love from the top gallant waving. CCX. TAKE, OH, TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY†. AIR-Gently touch the warbling lyre. Take, oh, take those lips away, That so sweetly were forsworn; And those eyes, the break of day, These elegant stanzas, so justly admired for their extreme sweetness. have been generally ascribed to Fletcher, in whose tradegy of Rollo, Duke of Normandy, they are to be found, but as the first of them had appeared a considerable time before, in Shakespeare's Measure for Measure, and as all the songs introduced into that author's plays, seem to have been his own composition, Mr. Malone, in his improved edition of Shakespeare's Sonnets, has, (we think with justice), inserted them as his. CCXI. THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP *. "They made her a grave too cold and damp, "For a soul so warm and true; "And she's gone to the lake of the dismal swamp, "She paddles her white canoe. *This affecting little piece is from the pen of Mr. Thomas Moore, and is founded, he tells us, on a story current in Norfolk, in America, of a young man, who lost his reason upon the death of a girl whom he loved, and who, suddenly disappearing from his friends, was never afterwards heard of. As he had frequently said, in his ravings, that the girl was not dead, but gone to the dismal swamp, it is supposed he had wandered into that dreary wilderness, and had died of hunger, or been lost in some of its dreadful morasses.-The great dismal swamp is ten or twelve miles distant from Norfolk, and the Lake in the middle of it (about seven miles long) is called Drummond's Pond. Amid the singular constellation of genius that at present illuminates our poetical horizon, the star of Moore shines with no weakly lustre. This eminent individual, the only son of Mr. Garret Moore, formerly a respectable merchant in Dublin, and who still resides there, was born May 28th, 1780. While attending the grammar school of that city, he evinced such precocity of talent, as determined his father to give him the advantages of a superior education; and, at the age of fourteen, he was entered a student in Trinity College.. Ее |