THE EVER-GREEN. WHEN tepid breezes fann'd the air, Flourish, said I, those favour'd boughs, Yield ev'ry tree that crowns the grove Lavinia smil'd-and whilst her arm And thus the meaning smile explain'd: "When summer suns shine forth no more, Will then this lime its shelter yield? Protect us when the tempests roar, And winter drives us from the field? "Yet faithful then the fir shall last I smile," she cry'd, "but ah! I tremble, To think when my fair season's past, Which Damon then will most resemble." THE ANSWER. Too tim'rous maid, can time or chance That melts my frame, that kills my soul. Were but thy outward charms admir'd, But whilst thy mind shall seem thus fair, THE PLAY-THING CHANGED. KITTY's charming voice and face, Kitty tunes her pipe in vain, With airs most languishing and dying; Calls me false, ungrateful swain, Nancy, with resistless art, Always humorous, gay, and witty, Has talk'd herself into my heart, And quite excluded tuneful Kitty. Ah, Kitty! Love, a wanton boy, Now pleas'd with song, and now with prattle, Still longing for the newest toy, Has chang'd his whistle for a rattle. CYNTHIA. AN ELEGIAC POEM. BENEATH an aged oak's embow'ring shade, Fast by, a Naiad taught her stream to glide, The whisp'ring sedges wav'd along the shore. Here oft, when morn peep'd o'er the dusky hill; And pour'd in strains like these his artless tale: Ah! would he say—and then a sigh would heave: Ah! what avails this sweetly solemn bow'r, That silent stream where dimpling eddies play; Yon thymy bank bedeck'd with many a flow'r, Where maple tufts exclude the beam of day? Robb'd of my love, for how can these delight, As droops the lily at the blighting gale; Or crimson-spotted cowslip of the mead, Whose tender stalk (alas! their stalk so frail) Some hasty foot hath bruis'd with heedless tread: As droops the woodbine, when some village hind But trails its fading beauties on the ground: So droops my soul, dear maid, downcast and sad, Return blest days, return ye laughing hours, Which led me up the roseate steep of youth; Which strew'd my simple path with vernal flow'rs, And bade me court chaste science and fair truth. Ye know, the curling breeze, or gilded fly For ah! I knew not then or love, or care. |