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And when the mountainous ocean swells and raves,
When the ship sinks beneath,
Thou makest on the waves
He gazes round and round,
And thinks he can descry
When mid the waters cast,
Despair had fill'd his breast, Şoon had he perish’d, and the pang been past. Fool! he who trusts thee in the evil hour,
Thou parasite of grief,
Whose false and boasting power Can only promise, never bring relief.
TO THE RIVER TEIGN.
Oh Thou! the guardian of each floweret pale
That decks thy lonely brim; whether thy car,
Hoarse murmuring from afar, Foams down the dark and solitary vale; Or through yon meads thy peaceful current roves,
Where, mid the pendent umbrage pleased to
Thou shunn'st the noontide ray [stray, Which gilds the' encircling majesty of groves ; Hail, holy sire! whilst keen remorse corrodes,
Sicken’d with pleasure's pangs, this aching
Thy freshening streams impart, [heart, And take, oh, take me to thy bless'd abodes !
But if, led on by Heaven's decree to explore
The depths and shoals of fortune, once again
I trust the faithless main,
and woes Of latest age, to lose the silent hours,
And in thy awful bowers
TO THE POPPY.
Not for the promise of the labour'd field,
I bend at Ceres' shrine;
Alas! a melancholy worship's mine!
Thou brilliant weed
That dost so far exceed The richest gifts gay Flora can bestow, Heedless I pass'd thee in Life's morning hour
(Thou comforter of woe),
A various wreath I wove
To deck ungrateful Love;
Unless perchance the attributes of grief,
By thee the wretched die!
Which bids the spirit from its bondage fly,
HON. MRS. O'NEIL.
TO THE WILLOW.
Queen of flowers, how bright her hue,
Flings her refreshing odours to the night!
Pleasure's joyous votaries, haste,
For me a wreath does Fate provide, A chaplet meet to deck the bride Who weds Despair—the pallid cypress here Shall mix'd with dark funereal yew appear. Ah! never should thy fragrant breath, Sweet rose, be wasted in the cave of Death; There must the nuptial feast be shortly spread, There the stern bridegroom waits—my bridal
guests the dead.
Then not for me, too lavish rose,
Spread thy robe of crimson hue; Far hence thy balmy sweets disclose,
Whilst I the weeping willow woo.
When the wild winds impetuous blow,
When the tall elm and stately oak
But not for yielding gentleness alone, And patient meekness, is the willow known; 'Tis her distinguish'd lot to prove The last resource of suffering love; Her graceful foliage decks the maid Who weeps too easy faith betray'd; Or crowns the drooping love-lorn swain, Whose haughty fair one scorns his pain; Or marks the consecrated spot where sleep Love's victims, who at length have ceased to weep.
Then, still to cureless grief a friend, Thine aid to me, sweet willow, lend; Now Hope's delusive visions fade, Receive within thy darksome shade And hide a wretch, who shuns the day, From hateful light's intrusive ray: Wrapp'd in thy deep o’ershadowing gloom, The darker shelter of the tomb Alone can tempt me to resign This lone sequester'd bower of thine: For till that last asylum shall enclose With its strong fence my then-forgotten woes, What object so can charm mine eye As in the stream, that murmurs by, To see thy pendent branches o'er me wave, That shortly shall adorn my peaceful grave.