Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

Yet eager looks and dying sighs,
My secret soul discover;

While rapture trembling through mine eyes,
Reveals how much I love her.
The tender glance, the red'ning cheek,
O'erspread with rising blushes,
A thousand various ways they speak,
A thousand various wishes.

For oh! that form so heavenly fair,

Those languid eyes so sweetly smiling,
That artless blush and modest air,
So fatally beguiling!

The every look and every grace,

So charm whene'er I view thee;
'Till death o'ertake me in the chace,
Still will my hopes pursue thee:
Then when my tedious hours are past,
Be this last blessing given,
Low at thy feet to breathe my last,
And die in sight of heaven.

[William Hamilton, of Bangour, in Ayrshire, was another of the "Ingenious Young Gentlemen," assisting Ramsay in the Tea Table Miscellany. When that curious and valuable collection of songs first appeared, Hamilton was only in his twentieth year.

The above tender and elegant lyric, cannot be too much admired; Dr. Johnson, on account of the rhymes "wishes" and "blushes," condemned it, and would read no further. His judgment has been here of little weight-it is still considered one of our most beautiful and pathetic songs, and will continue to be so while true feeling can be distinguished from bombast and affectation.]

YE SHEPHERDS OF THIS PLEASANT VALE.

WILLIAM HAMILTON.

Ye shepherds of this pleasant vale,
Where Yarrow streams along,
Forsake your rural toils and join
In my triumphant song.

She grants, she yields; one heavenly smile

Atones her long delays,

One happy minute crowns the pains
Of many suffering days.

Raise, raise the victor notes of joy,
These suffering days are o'er,
Love satiates now his boundless wish
From beauty's boundless store;
No doubtful hopes, no anxious fears
This rising calm destroy,
Now every prospect smiles around

All opening into joy.

The sun with double lustre shone
That dear consenting hour,
Brightened each hill and o'er each vale

New colour'd every flower.

The gales their gentle sighs withheld,
No leaf was seen to move

The hovering songsters round were mute,
And wonder hush'd the grove.

The hills and dales no more resound
The lambkins tender cry,
Without one murmur Yarrow stole
In dimpling silence by ;
All nature seem'd in still repose
Her voice alone to hear,

That gently roll'd the tuneful wave
She spoke and bless'd my ear.

'Take, take, whate'er of bliss or joy
You fondly fancy mine,
Whate'er of joy or bliss I boast
Love renders wholly thine.'

The words struck up, to the soft gale
The leaves were seen to move,
The feather'd choir resum'd their voice
And wonder fill'd the grove.

The hills and dales again resound
The lambkins tender cry,

With all his murmurs Yarrow trill'd
The song of triumph by :
Above, beneath, all round, all on
Was verdure, beauty, song;

I snatch'd her to my trembling breast
All nature joy'd along.

WHY HANGS THAT CLOUD?

WILLIAM HAMILTON.

Why hangs that cloud upon thy brow,
That beauteous heav'n, erewhile serene?
Whence do these storms and tempests flow,
What may this gust of passion mean?
And must then mankind lose that light
Which in thine eyes was wont to shine,
And lie obscure in endless night,
For each poor silly speech of mine?

Dear maid, how can I wrong thy name,
Since 'tis acknowledged, at all hands,
That could ill tongues abuse thy fame,
Thy beauty can make large amends:
Or if I durst profanely try

Thy beauty's pow'rful charms t' upbraid,

Thy virtue well might give the lie,

Nor call thy beauty to its aid.

For Venus, every heart t' ensnare,
With all her charms has deck'd thy face,

And Pallas, with unusual care,

Bids wisdom heighten every grace.

Who can the double pain endure?
Or who must not resign the field
To thee, celestial maid, secure

With Cupid's bow, and Pallas' shield?

If then to thee such pow'r is given,
Let not a wretch in torment live,
But smile, and learn to copy Heaven,
Since we must sin ere it forgive.
Yet pitying Heaven not only does
Forgive th' offender and th' offence,
But even itself appeas'd bestows,
As the reward of penitence.

STREPHON'S PICTURE.

WILLIAM HAMILTON.

Ye gods! was Strephon's picture blest
With the fair heaven of Chloe's breast?
Move softer, thou fond flutt'ring heart,
Oh, gently throb-too fierce thou art.
Tell me, thou brightest of thy kind,
For Strephon was the bliss design'd?
For Strephon's sake, dear charming maid,
Did thou prefer his wand'ring shade?

And thou, bless'd shade, that sweetly art
Lodged so near my Chloe's heart,
For me the tender hour improve,
And softly tell how dear I love.
Ungrateful thing! it scorns to hear
Its wretched master's ardent pray'r,
Ingrossing all that beauteous heav'n,
That Chloe, lavish maid, has given.

« AnteriorContinuar »