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Denis Florence MacCarthy
This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 63 pages of information about Poems.

Go then, thou charming myst’ry, go!—­
  Yes, tho’ thou often dost amuse me,
Tho’ many a joy to thee I owe,
  At once I thank thee and abuse thee.

A ROUNDELAY.

Wide thro’ the azure blue and bright
Serenely floats the lamp of night;
The sleeping waves forget to move,
And silent is the cedar grove;
Each breeze suspended seems to say—­
“Now, Leline, for thy Roundelay!”

My Delia’s lids are clos’d in rest;
Ah! were her pillow but my breast! 
Go, dreams! one gentle word impart,
In whispers place me by her heart;
While near her door I’ll fondly stray,
And sooth her with my Roundelay.

But, ah! the Night draws in her shade,
And glimm’ring stars reluctant fade: 
Yet sleep, my love! nor may’st thou feel
The pangs which griefs like mine reveal: 
Adieu! for Morning’s on his way,
And bids me close my Roundelay.

FAREWELL LINES

TO

BRISTOL HOT WELLS.

Bristol! in vain thy rocks attempt the sky,
  The wild woods waving on their giddy brow;
And vainly, devious Avon! vainly sigh
  Thy waters, winding thro’ the vales below;—­

In vain, upon thy glassy bosom borne,
  Th’ expected vessel proudly glides along,
While, ’mid thy echoes, at the break of morn
  Is heard the homeward ship-boy’s happy song;—­

For, ah! amid thy sweet romantic shade,
  By Friendship led, fair drooping Beauty moves;
Thy hallow’d cup of health affords no aid,
  Nor charm thy birds, that chant their woodland loves.

Each morn I view her thro’ thy wave-girt grove,
  Her white robe flutt’ring round her sinking form;
O’er the sweet ruin shine those eyes of love,
  As bright stars beaming thro’ a midnight storm.

Here sorrowing Love seeks a sequester’d bow’r. 
  Calls on thy spring to calm his troubled breast;
Bright Hope alights not on his pensive hour,
  Nor can thy favour’d fountains yield him rest.

Despair across his joys now intervenes,
  And sternly bids the little cherub fly;
While his eyes close amid thy beauteous scenes. 
  His last sighs bless the form that bids him die.

Farewell, then, Bristol! thou canst yield no joy,
  Thy woods look darken’d with funereal gloom,
Sickness and Sorrow on thy green banks sigh,
  And all thy form is but a beauteous tomb.

Ah! may each future suff’rer, hov’ring near,
  Rais’d by thy genial wave, delighted view
Returning joy and health, supremely dear,
  Long lost to him who sadly sighs adieu!

A SONG.

These shades were made for Love alone,—­
  Here only smiles and kisses sweet
Shall play around his flow’ry throne,
  And doves shall sentinel the seat.

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