With pretious merchandize she forth doth lay; Fayre, when that cloud of pryde, which oft doth mark Her goodly light, with smiles she drives away. But fayrest she, when so she doth display The gate with pearles and rubyes richly dight; Through which her words so wise do make their way To beare the message of her gentle spright; The rest be works of nature's wonderment, But this the works of hart's astonishment. SPENSER. UPON THY TRUTH RELYING. THEY say we are too young to love,- In scorn they bid us both renounce They send thee forth to see the world, Then go; for I can smile farewell,- I know that pleasure's hand will throw I know how lonesome I shall find I'll kiss each word that's traced by thee,- When friends applaud thee, I'll sit by, In silent rapture gazing; And, oh! how proud of being loved By her they have been praising! I'll love thee-laud thee-trust thee still, Upon thy truth relying. E'en those who smile to see us part, Shall see us meet with wonder; Such trials only make the heart That truly loves grow fonder. Our sorrows past shall be our pride, T. H. BAYLY. GENEVIEVE. MAID of my love! sweet Genevieve ; And sweet your voice, as seraph's song. This heart with passion soft to glow: Within your soul a voice there lives! It bids you hear the tale of woe, When sinking low the suff'rer wan Beholds no hand outstretch'd to save, Fair, as the bosom of the swan That rises graceful o'er the wave, COLERIDGE. A LANGUISHING LOVER. O Nightingale! best poet of the grove, That plaintive strain can ne'er belong to thee, Blest in the full possession of thy love; O lend that strain, sweet nightingale, to me! 'Tis mine, alas! to mourn my wretched fate: I love a maid who all my bosom charms, Yet lose my days without this lovely mate; Inhuman fortune keeps her from my arms. You, happy birds! by nature's simple laws Lead your soft lives, sustain'd by nature's fare; You dwell wherever roving fancy draws, And love and song is all your pleasing care. But we, vain slaves of interest and of pride, Dare not be blest lest envious tongues should blame: And hence, in vain I languish for my bride; O mourn with me, sweet bird, my hapless flame! THOMSON. SONG. COME, let me take thee to my breast, The world's wealth and grandeur. Thus in my arms, wi' all thy charms, And by thy een sae bonnie blue, BURNS. |