Alike to him if tempests howl,
Or summer beam its sweetest day;
For still is pleas’d the silly soul,
And still he laughs the hours away.
Alas! I could not stop the sigh,
To see him thus so wildly stare,—
To mark, in ruins, Reason lie,
Callous alike to joy and care.
God bless thee, thoughtless soul! I cried;
Yet are thy wants but very few:
The world’s hard scenes thou ne’er hast tried;
Its cares and crimes to thee are new.
The hoary hag[A], who cross’d thee so,
Did not unkindly vex thy brain;
Indeed she could not be thy foe,
To snatch thee thus from grief and pain.
Deceit shall never wring thy heart,
And baffled hope awake no sighs;
And true love, harshly forc’d to part,
Shall never swell with tears thine eyes.
Then long enjoy thy batter’d broom,
Poor merry fool! and laugh away
’Till Fate shall bid thy reason bloom
In blissful scenes of brighter day.
[Footnote A: It is generally believed by the peasants of Devonshire that idiotcy is produced by the influence of a witch.]
To a Laurel-Leaf,
SENT TO THE AUTHOR BY MISS ——.
Tho’ unknown is the hand that bestow’d
thee on me,
Sweet leaf! ev’ry fibre I’ll warm with a kiss:
With the fame of her beauty thou well dost agree,
Whose presence shews conquest, whose triumph is bliss!
OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF LIEUTENANT J——,
Who was killed by a Pistol-Shot,
ACCIDENTALLY DISCHARGED BY HIS FRIEND,
With horror dumb, tho’ guiltless, stood
Beside his dying friend,
The hapless wretch who made the blood
Sad from his side descend!
“Give me thy hand; lov’d friend, adieu!”
The gen’rous suff’rer cried!
“I do forgive and bless thee too;”
And, having said it, died!
And Pity, who stood trembling near
Knew not for which to shed,
So claim’d by both, her saddest tear—
The living or the dead!
TO AN ACCOMPLISHED YOUNG LADY,
Whose Timidity frequently agitated her, when pressed
to gratify her
Friends by her Musical Talents.
’Tis said (and I believe it too)
That genuine merit seeks the shade;
Blushing to think what is her due,
As of her own sweet pow’rs afraid:—
Thus, lovely maid! on fluttering wings,
Thy pow’rs a thousand fears pursue,
Which, like thy own harmonious strings,
When press’d enchant, and tremble too!
The pity, which we give, you owe,
For mutual fears on both attend;
While anxious thus you joy bestow,
We fear too soon that joy will end!