MARK'D you her cheek of roseate hue?
Mark'd you her eye of radiant blue ?-
That eye, in liquid circles moving!
That cheek, abash'd at man's approving!
The one Love's arrows darting round,
The other blushing at the wound.
As Ann and her sister Kate, at even-tide,
Sat in a shady grove, a cool retreat;
A wandering vagrant, of the gipsy tribe,
Approach'd the sisters, with her stealthy feet.
These shunned outcasts boast but little store,
Though taking anything their hands can clutch;
Great skill in palmistry they have, and more
To conjure clean away the gold they touch.
Taking the hand of Ann, the beldame said--
"Lady, the lines upon your hand do prove
That him with whom you are about to wed,
Will render unto you love for love."
DRIED be that tear, my gentlest Love!
Be hush'd that struggling sigh,
Not Season's day, nor Fate shall prove
More fix'd, more true than I!
Hush'd be that sigh, be dry that tear;
Cease boding doubt, cease anxious fear.
Dost ask how long my vows shall stay,
When all that's new is past?
How long? my DELIA! can I say
How long my life will last?
Dried be that tear, be hush'd that sigh,
At least I'll love thee till I die.
And does that thought affect thee too,
The thought of Sylvio's death;
That he, who only breathes for you,
Must yield that faithful breath?
Hush'd be that sigh, be dry that tear,
Nor let us lose our heaven while here!
FAIR Lady, leave parade and show,
O leave thy courtly guise a while :
For thee the vernal breezes blow,
And groves, and flowery valleys smile:
For no conceited selfish pride
Corrupts thy taste for rural joy:
Nor can thy gentle heart abide
The taunting lip, or scornful eye.
Nor scorn, nor envy harbour here,
Nor discord, nor profane desires:
No flattery shall offend thine ear,
For love our faithful song inspires.
When smiling morn ariseth gay,
Gilding the dew-drops on the lawn,
Our flocks on flowery uplands stray,
Our songs salute the rosy dawn.
When noon-tide scorcheth all the hills,
And all the flowers and herbage fade,
We seek the cool refreshing rills
That warble through the green-wood gladc.
But when the lucid star of eve
Shines in the western sky serene,
The swains and shepherdesses weave
Fantastic measures on the green.
O Lady! change thy splendid state,
With us a shepherdess abide ;
Contentment dwells not with the great,
But flies from avarice and pride.
The groves invite thee; and our vale,
Where every fragrant bud that blows,
And every stream, and every gale
Will yield thee pastime and repose.
CEASE to blame my melancholy,
Though, with sighs and folded arms,
I muse in silence on her charms;
Censure not-I know 'tis folly.
Yet, these mournful thoughts possessing,
Such delight I find in grief,
That, could Heaven afford relief,
My fond heart would scorn the blessing.
IF in that breast, so good, so pure,
Compassion ever lov'd to dwell,
Pity the sorrows I endure,
The cause-I must not-dare not tell.
The grief that on my quiet preys,
That rends my heart, that checks my tongue,
I fear will last me all my days,
But feel it will not fast me long 1
SWEET silent Breeze of the Noon! to thee
The proudest bosom still is free :
With softest murmur greet the Maid
To whose cold heart my vows are paid.
Full oft to thee, sweet soothing guest!
She loosens all her snowy breast:
And, oh! no gently-swelling sail
That opens to thy passing gale,
E'er heav'd so lovely to the sight,
As heaves that breast of soft delight;
Than winter's snow more white.
Each charm, which you alone may sec,
Returning, tell to none but me.
Search all that courts, or shuns the eye,
And mingle with her parting sigh;
Thy breath, thence fraught with balmy power,
On every weed shall leave a flower;
Yet none like that fair rose shall be,
Which dyes her cheek when kiss'd by thee!
The morning's blush, or evening's glow,
The blooming spring, or wat'ry bow,
No tints so fair can show.
No sun shall drink its silken bloom,
No wintry blasts its dyes consume;
Grief ne'er shall raise her banners pale,
Where now those tints of health prevail;
But youth shall feed the glowing dyes,
Unstain'd by sorrow's withering sighs:
For ah, too well, alas! I know
She ne'er can feel a lover's woe!
For had she known the secret pain,
She ne'er would wound, with such disdain,
A heart that pines in vain.
Ah plead, sweet Breeze! a lover's part;
And pour thy mildness o'er her heart.
Ah! say, though Time goes softly past,
He marks his footsteps plain at last;
And leaves them in the forest face,
In waning Beauty's vacant place:
Her cruel scorn at least reprove,
Scorn is a hard reward for love.
Ah! bid her not her power abuse;
Ah! bid her not that heart refuse,
Which she may grieve to lose!
'Tis not in Hymen's gay propitious hour,
With summer beams and genial breezes blest,
That man a Consort's worth approveth best:
"Tis when the skies with gloomy tempests lour,
When cares and sorrows all their torrents pour,
She clasps him closer to her hallow'd breast,
Pillows his head, and lays his heart to rest;
Drying her cheek from sympathetic show'r.
Thus when along Calabria's sulph'rous coast,
Whilst lurid clouds hang low, and heaves the sea,
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