Come then-ere yet the morning ray :. Ye droop, fond flowers! But did ye know For there has liberal nature join'd Her riches to the store of art, And added to the virtuous mind, The soft, the sympathizing heart. Come then-ere yet the morning ray O! I should think, that fragrant bed By one short hour of transport there. More blest than me, thus shall ye live Your little day; and when ye die, While I, alas! no distant date, Mix with the dust from whence I came, Without a friend to weep my fate, Without a stone to tell my name. IV. Gifford. Esq. : VERSES WRITTEN TWO YEARS AFTER THE PRECEDING. I WISH I was where Anna lies; I wish I could! for when she died But who, when I am turn'd to clay, And weeds that have "no business there?" And who, with pious hand, shall bring The flowers she cherish'd, snow-drops cold, And violets that unheeded spring, To scatter o'er her hallow'd mould? And who, while memory loves to dwell I did it; and would fate allow, Should visit still, should still deploreBut health and strength have left me now, And I, alas! can weep no more. Take then, sweet maid! this simple strain, And can thy soft persuasive look, Thy voice, that might with music vie, Thy air, that every gazer took, Thy matchless eloquence of eye, Thy spirits, innocent as good, Thy courage, by no ills dismay'd, Thy patience, by no wrongs subdu'd, Thy gay good-humour-can they "fade?" Ibid. THE SUMMER FADES. I SEE the tints of Summer fade, Forth, when the splendours of the day And sweet it is, through coppice near, To catch the sun's departing gleam, While ev'ry breeze to fancy's ear, Conveys a soft celestial theme. Oh, at such hour! when tumult wild Disturbs no more the tranquil frame; When ev'ry thought of earth beguil'd, Feels all of passion but the name; Oft with Myrtilla have I trod The scene to contemplation giv'n, And as we press'd the dew-bright sod, Look'd upward to a brighter heav'n! The mild moon dwelling on her cheek, Seem'd with her breast to sympathize, And language more than earth could speak, Shone in her soft retiring eyes. And will these hours return no more? May bid remembrance cease to tell Of what we know: and when gone by, These coming hours shall fondly dwell Where mem'ry holds her fonder tie. And, though to Autumn's latest sheaf For Winter, in his arm of might, No brighter moments have I known, Than those which Winter can bestow, When friendship draws her circling zone : 'Mid lakes of ice and fields of snow. |