Leave in my wounded ears inflicted scars;
I hate those trills, and shakes, and sounds that float
Upon the captive air; I know no note,
Nor ever shall, whatever folks may say,
Of the strange mysteries of Sol and Fa;
I sit at oratorios like a fish,
Incapable of sound, and only wish
The thing was over.  Yet do I admire,
O tuneful daughter of a tuneful sire,
Thy painful labours in a science, which
To your deserts I pray may make you rich
As much as you are loved, and add a grace
To the most musical Novello race. 
Women lead men by the nose, some cynics say;
You draw them by the ear—­a delicater way.

THE SISTERS

On Emma’s honest brow we read display’d
The constant virtues of the Nut Brown Maid;
Mellifluous sounds on Clara’s tongue we hear,
Notes that once lured a Seraph from his sphere;
Cecilia’s eyes such winning beauties crown
As without song might draw her Angel down.

LOVE WILL COME

Tune—­The Tartar Drum

I

Guard thy feelings, pretty Vestal,
From the smooth Intruder free;
Cage thy heart in bars of chrystal,
Lock it with a golden key: 
Thro’ the bars demurely stealing,
Noiseless footstep, accent dumb,
His approach to none revealing—­
Watch, or watch not, LOVE WILL COME.

His approach to none revealing—­
Watch, or watch not, Love will come—­Love,
Watch, or watch not, Love will come.

II

Scornful Beauty may deny him—­
He hath spells to charm disdain;
Homely Features may defy him—­
Both at length must wear the chain. 
Haughty Youth in Courts of Princes—­
Hermit poor with age o’er come—­
His soft plea at last convinces;
Sooner, later, LOVE WILL COME.

His soft plea at length convinces;
Sooner, later, Love will come—­Love,
Sooner, later, Love will come.

TO MARGARET W——­

Margaret, in happy hour
Christen’d from that humble flower
Which we a daisy[17] call! 
May thy pretty name-sake be
In all things a type of thee,
And image thee in all.

[Footnote 17:  Marguerite, in French, signifies a daisy. [Note in Athenaeum.]]

To Margaret W——­

Like it you show a modest face,
An unpretending native grace;—­
The tulip, and the pink,
The china and the damask rose,
And every flaunting flower that blows,
In the comparing shrink.

Of lowly fields you think no scorn;
Yet gayest gardens would adorn,
And grace, wherever set. 
Home-seated in your lonely bower,
Or wedded—­a transplanted flower—­
I bless you, Margaret!

EDMONTON, 8_th October_, 1834.

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