No melting lips, profuse of bliss, Nor balmy breath pour in mine ear, I chose thee, Ease, and yet to me, Much that was worthy to be lov'd. Thy past ingratitude forget: Oh! come again! thy 'witching powers, With thee to cheer me, heavenly queen, A sweet variety of joys: And Glory's crown, and Beauty's smile, And treasured hoards should seem the while, The idlest of all human toys. The place you vacate in his heart The sails are spread, the winds arise YORICK. FOR THE PORT FOLIO. ODE TO MAY. GIVE to joy your fleeting hours, The joys of vulgar souls despise, Give to joy your fleeting hours, Though swift the forked lightnings fly, Give to joy your fleeting hours, Ere they fade away. Bid Pain and Guilt and Malice fly, Bid gentle Peace forever nigh; And Hope who views with steadfast eye, Bid hail to Love, enchanting guest; Give, &c. FOR THE PORT FOLIO. EPIEUGENIUM, WRITTEN IN THE INDIAN SUMMER OF 1812. 'Tis now the clear-tide of our western sky; Rich in fruits and housed grain, This is nature's jubilee, Season of festivity.. In annual course, the brilliant orb of day, Season of love's jubilee, Birth-day of fair Amadee! Winter, with icy tresses and with plume of snows, The lucid sky and piercing air To Carlo's and Louisa's love A sweet reward from Heaven above.. Oh! season of love's jubilee, The autumn genius spreads his luscious care That pleasure fastens to the board. Is gifted with each power to please, Oh, happy shall the lover be Who's bound to her nativity. Accomplished, gentle creature! Love's own child, Maiden of the blue eye mild! Every virtue, every charm Love can feel, or heart can warm, In whose person, in whose mind, Are all assembled, all combined! May thy loved nativity Prove as the birth of hope to me! Natal day of Amadee! Epoch of my jubilee! SONNET. My love is like the tints of dawn, she's like Aurora's ray; My love is like the tuneful lark, so modest is her air; My love is like the desert rose, unconscious of her charms; I bear her in my faithful breast, I'll fold her in my arms. My love is like the evergreens, that bud at autumn's close, That enliven the blank winter scenes, Hope's emblem mid the snows; My love is like the orange bulb, like Neagh's strawberry tree, Which blossom when the summers close, at her nativity. I love the dropping of the leaves, they speak my love's birth day, I'll strew them in her path the morn, the morn of her birth day. Every grace, without art, All acknowledge who view her. Like her own meek-eyed dove, Still her eyes, at her will, Oh! they have shot to my heart, And my soul cleaves unto her. I love the dropping of the leaves, they speak my love's birth day; I'll strew them in her path the morn, The morn of her birth day. CAMILDHU. A SONG: THE ROSE. FOR THE PORT FOLIO. SEE! says my Jane, this tender rose See how it droops its head and dies! This envious flower, love! once so sleek, Has seen your ruby lips and cheek: ALEXIS. |