When adverse Fortune bade us part,
And grief depress’d my aching heart,
Like yon reviving ray,
She from behind the cloud would move,
And with a stolen look of love
Would melt my cares away.
Sweet flow’r! supremely dear to me,
Thy lovely mistress blooms in thee,
For, tho’ the garden’s pride,
In beauty’s grace and tint array’d,
Thou seem’st to court the secret shade,
Thy modest form to hide.
Oh! crown’d with many a roseate year,
Bless’d may she be who plac’d thee here,
Until the tear of love
Shall tremble in the eye to find
Her spirit, spotless and refin’d,
Borne to the realms above!
And oft for thee, sweet child of spring!
The Muse shall touch her tend’rest string;
And, as thou rear’st thine head,
She shall invoke the softest air,
Or ask the chilling storm to spare,
And bless thy humble bed.
To lady Warren,
On the Departure of Sir John Borlase Warren, K.B.
To take the command of A squadron.
Oh! why does sorrow shade thy face,
Where mind and beauty vie with grace?
Say, dost thou for thy hero weep,
Who gallantly, upon the deep,
Is gone to tell the madd’ning foe,
Tho’ vict’ry laid our Nelson low,
We still have chiefs as greatly brave,
Proudly triumphant on the wave?
Dear to thy Country shall thou be,
Fair mourner! and her sympathy
Is thine; for, in the war’s alarms,
Thou gav’st thine hero from thine arms;
And only ask’d to sigh alone,
To look to heav’n, and weep him gone.
Oh! soon shall all thy sorrow cease,
And, to thine aching bosom, peace
Shall quick return;—another tear
To love and joy, supremely dear,
Shall give thy gen’rous mind relief—
That tear shall gem the laurel leaf.
To Miss ——,
Accompanied by A rose and A lily.
I look’d the fragrant garden round
For what I thought would picture best
Thy beauty and thy modesty;
A lily and a rose I found,—
With kisses on their leaves imprest,
I send the beauteous pair to thee.
Nature’s imperfect child, to whom
The world is wrapt in viewless gloom,
Can unresisted still impart
The fondest wishes of his heart.
And he, to whose impervious ear
The sweetest sounds no charms dispense,
Can bid his inmost soul appear
In clear, tho’ silent, eloquence.
But we, my Julia, not so blest,
Are doom’d a diff’rent fate to prove,—
To feel each joy and hope supprest
That flow from pure, but hidden, love.