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By day or night, in weal or woe,
That heart, no longer free,
And silent ache for thee.
Sweet as the rose that scents the gale,
Marring each beauty thou bearest.
Beauty like thine, all nature thrills;
Which on the breast thou wearest.
Where could those peerless flow'rets blow? Whence are the thorns that near them grow?
but smile, O lovely foe, Smile on the heart thou tearest.
Sighing, I view that cypress waist,
Like the new blossom smiling.
Spreading thy toils with hands divine,
Senses and soul beguiling.
See at thy feet no vulgar slave,
Thee his blest idol styling.
SIR W. JONES.
A spring, o'erhung with many a flower,
The grey sand dancing in its bed, Embank'd beneath a hawthorn bower,
Sent forth its waters near my head :
A rosy lass approach'd my view:
I caught her blue eye's modest beam; The stranger nodded “How d’ye do!"
And leap'd across the infant stream.
The water, heedless, pass'd away:
With me her glowing image stay'd; I strove, from that auspicious day,
To meet and bless the lovely maid. I met her where beneath our feet Through downy moss the wild thyme
grew; Nor moss elastic, flow'rs though sweet,
Match'd Hannah's cheek of rosy hue.
I met her where the dark woods wave,
Apd shaded verdure skirts the plain; And when the pale moon rising gave
New glories to her clouded train. From her sweet cot upon the moor,
Our plighted vows to heaven are flown; Truth made me welcome at her door, And rosy Hannah is my own.
MY BEAUTIFUL MARY.
Oh, couldst thou but love me,
My beautiful Mary!
And thy step like a fairy;
away To a far summer isle, Where soft music and love
Should our moments beguile,
Where the gentlest of gales
Which the East only knows, With perfume comes fraught
From the sighs of the rose;Where the sun, never sets
O'er the still, heaveless main, But the sweetest of flow'rs
Weep for him again.
Oh, there would I build thee
An altar to truth,
In the sunshine of youth ;
That star shouldst thou be, If my beautiful Mary,
Could only love me !
O were my
When weary'd on my little wing;
How I would mourn, when it was torn
By autumn wild! and winter rude! And I would sing on wanton wing,
When youthful May its bloom renew'd.