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many a towering grove of pine, Whose gloom shut out the noon-day sung In shatter'd ruin lies supine,
Since first my wat’ry course begun.
And many a toiling race of man
Has joy’d in youth, and mourn'd in age, Since first my pensive view began
To trace their weary pilgrimage.
And many a nymph with sounding bow,
Slow-rolling eyes, and heavy locks, As young, as fair, as soft as thou,
Has chac'd the deer o'er yonder rocks,
And when the sun's meridian heat
With fervid splendour fir’d the heath, Oft have they sought my cool retreat,
With glowing breast and panting breath.
Yet, never did I pour my stream
To bathe a breast more pure than thine, Or visit eyes in whose mild beam
So clear the gentler virtues shine.
When with light step thy naked feet
Move quick my primrose banks along, I bid my streams with murmur sweet
Their liquid melody prolong.
When Echo to thy voice replies
From yonder arch of rugged stone, Well pleas'd I lift my
eyes, As blue and languid as thy own:
yon hazle's pendant shade Sweet spring awakes the blackbird's strain, Come to my bosom, gentle maid,
And lave thy streaming locks again.
Pluck from my brink the flow'ry store
That blushing decks the infant year, And to increase their beauty more,
Deign round thy brow the wreath to wear.
And when the summer's ardent glow
brook in yonder plain, Come where
lucid waters flow, And bathe thy graceful form again.
Nor yet, when wintry tempests howl,
To haunt my lonely margin cease, Thro’ life's dark storms the virtuous soul
Finds Reason's steady light increase.
Hard ice, that crusts my current clear,
Renews more pure my sparkling stream ; Thus may Affliction's hand severe
Add lustre to the mental gem.
Where'er you rove, where'er you rest,
May Peace your pensive steps attend, And halcyon Innocence your breast
From each contagious blast defend !
A POETICAL EPISTLE
« I do not think my sister so to seek,
Es, even amid these wilds forlorn,
Where shivering on the naked spray, The drooping songsters seem to mourn
The languid sun's declining ray ; While Nature faints in Winter's icy arms, My DELIA's tender strain my pensive bosom warms.
Ah! why does still that well-known strain
In sadly-plaintive numbers flow?
Their lenient balm to soothe thy woe :
While round thy cradle Pity's doves
Fond hovering pour'd their tender moan, And all the pure and guiltless loves
Exulting, hail'd thee for their own : They fled, repell’d by Wisdom's frown severe, While Patience hush'd the babe, and wip'd its tender tear.
Cease, then, dear partner of my breast,
Whose every joy and grief are mine;
For virtue's purest rays are thine :
Oh! why with selfish sorrow mourn,
And frequent pour the lonely tear ;
The parted soul, so justly dear.