Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Tho' oft we shiver'd to the gale
That howl'd along the gloomy waste;
Or mark'd, in billows wrapt, the sail
That vainly struggled with the blast;
Tho', as the dark wave flash'd on high,
We view'd the form of danger near;
While, as we caught the seaman's cry,
Cold terror check'd the starting tear;
Yet have we seen, where zephyrs breathe
Their sweets o'er mead or pasture-down,
Young laughing Spring with purple wreath
The hoary head of Winter crown.
But, ere we hail'd the budding tree
Or all its opening bloom survey'd,
Whilst in gay rounds the vernal bee
Humm'd o'er the fragrance of the glade;

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Fled was the faery smile, and clos'd
The little triumph of an hour:
And Melancholy's eye repos'd
On the pale bud, the fainting flower.

APRIL.

No longer the goddess of florets shall seem
To rekindle the blooms of the year;
Then scatter around us the wreck of a dream,
And resign us to winter austere.
To it promise yon delicate child of the shade—
The primrose—is never untrue:
Nor the lilac unfolds, the next moment to fade,
Its clusters of beautiful blue.
Tho' weak be its verdure, ere long shall the thorn
The pride of its blossom display,
Where Flora, amid the mild splendour of morn,
Unbosoms the fragrance of May.

THE EIGHTH OF MAY.

Soft as the sigh of zephyr heaves
The verdure of its lucid leaves,

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Yon opening lily's vestal white,
Moist from the dew-drop, drinks the light.
No more in feeble colours cold,
The tulip, for each glowing fold
So richly wav'd with vermeil dyes,
Steals the pure blush of orient skies.
The hyacinth, whose pallid hue
Shrunk from the blast that Eurus blew,
Now trusts to May's delicious calm
Its tender tint, its musky balm.
And hark! the plumed warblers pour
Their notes, to greet the genial hour,
As, whispering love, this arborous shade
Sports with the sunbeam down the glade.
Then say, ye nymphs! and truly tell,
If ever with the lily's bell,
Or with the tulip's radiant dye
Young poets give your cheeks to vie;
Or to the hyacinth compare
The clustering softness of your hair;
If e'er they bid your vocal strain
In silence hush the feather'd train;

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Beat not your hearts with more delight
At every “rural sound and sight,”
Than at such flattery, to the ear
Tho' syren-sweet, yet insincere?

THE FADE

White-vestur'd, ye maidens of Ellas, draw near,
And honour the rites of the day:
'Tis the fairest that shines in the round of the year;
Then hail the bright Goddess of May.
O come, let us rifle the hedges, and crown
Our heads with gay garlands of sweets:
And, when we return to the shouts of the town,
Let us weave the light dance thro' the streets.
Flinging open each door, let us enter and frisk,
Tho' the master be all in a pother—
For, away from one house as we merrily whisk,
We will fadè it, quick thro' another.
The nymph who despises the furry day-dance,
Is a fine, or a finical lady—
Then let us with hearts full of pleasure, advance,
And mix, one and all, in the Fadè!

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THE SOLITARY FAIR.

Perhaps, fair maid! thy musing mind,
Little to festive scenes inclin'd,
Scorns not the dancer's merry mood,
But only longs for solitude.
Thy heart, alive to nature's power,
Flutters within the roseate bower,
Thrills with new warmth, it knows not why,
And steals delirium from a sigh.
Alas! tho' so averse from glee,
This genial hour is felt by thee:
The tumults of thy bosom prove,
That May is but the nurse of—love!

BEWARE OF THE MONTH OF MAY.

Then, gentle maid, whoe'er thou art,
Who bid'st the shades embowering, veil
The sorrows of a lovesick heart,
And listen to thy pensive tale;
Sweet girl! insidious May beware;
And heed thy poet's warning song:
Lo! May and Venus spread the snare
For those who fly the festal throng!

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SIGHING SUSAN.

Poor Susan cries: “About my breast
“There's something, oh! so tight—
“I sigh all day, as one distrest,
“And often sigh at night.

“A sigh (my neighbours say) to glee
“Was always thought a foe:
“But there is something sweet, good me!
“At least in sighing so!

“They ask me, for what cause so oft
“I labour with a sigh?
‘Is it, because your heart is soft?’
“I'm sure, I can't tell, why.

“Yet father says—he knows full well—
‘But go, you'll like the task;
‘Ask William—he, perhaps, may tell’—
“I think, I'll go, and ask.”