Queen of flowers, how bright her hue,
Spangled o'er with morning dew;
From her breast what sweets exhale
At eve, when Zephyr's lingering gale,
Loath to quit the fond delight,
Flings her refreshing odours to the night!
Pleasure's joyous votaries, haste,
Not one precious moment waste,
Make those precious charms your own,
Seize them now they're fully blown;
And, while they grace your flowing hair,
Give no thought to absent Care;
Come, with frolic sport advance,
Lead the joy-inspiring dance,
Whilst Music's fascinating powers
Wake to mirth the laughing hours!
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,
And lay the trembling forest low,
When the tall elm and stately oak
Fall beneath the furious stroke,
Amidst the ravage of the plains
The humble willow safe remains;
She lowly bends, again to rise,
When the rude tempest's fury dies.
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.
FOUND IN A BOWER FACING THE
SOFT cherub of the southern breeze,
Oh! thou whose voice I love to hear,
When lingering through the rustling trees,
With lengthen'd sighs it soothes mine ear
Oh! thou whose fond embrace to meet,
The young Spring all enamour'd flies,
And robs thee of thy kisses sweet,
And on thee pours her laughing eyes;
Thou at whose call the light fays start,
That silent in their hidden bower
Lie penciling with tenderest art
The blossom thin and infant flower;
Soft cherub of the southern breeze!
Oh! if aright I tune the reed
Which thus thine ear would hope to please
By simple lay and humble meed;
And if aright, with anxious zeal,
My willing hands this bower have made,
Still let this bower thine influence feel,
And be its gloom thy favourite shade!
For thee of all the cherub train
Alone my votive Muse would woo; Of all that skim along the main,
Or walk at dawn yon mountains blue; Of all that slumber in the grove,
Or playful urge the gossamer's flight, Or down the vale or streamlet move, With whisper soft and pinion light.
I court thee, through the glimmering air,
When morning springs from slumbers still,
And waving bright his golden hair,
Stands tiptoe on yon eastern hill.
I court thee, when at noon reclined,
I watch the murmuring insect throng
In many an airy spiral wind,
Or silent climb the leaf along.
I court thee, when the flowerets close,
And drink no more receding light,
And when calm eve to soft repose
Sinks on the bosom of the night.
And when, beneath the moon's pale beam,
Alone mid shadowy rocks I roam,
And waking visions round me gleam,
Of beings and of worlds to come.
Smooth glides with thee my pensive hour,
Thou warm'st to life my languid mind;
Thou cheer'st a frame with genial power,
That droops in every ruder wind.
Breathe, cherub! breathe! once soft and warm,
Like thine, the gale of Fortune blew,
How has the desolating storm
Swept all I gazed on from my view!
Unseen, unknown, I wait my doom,
The haunts of men indignant flee,
Hold to my heart a listless gloom,
And joy but in the Muse and thee.
SLAVE of the dark and dirty mine,
What vanity hath brought thee here?
How can I love to see thee shine
So bright whom I have bought so dear?
The tent rope's flapping lone I hear,
For twilight converse, arm in arm;
The jackal's shriek bursts on mine ear, When mirth and music wont to charm.
By Chericul's dark wandering streams,
Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild,
Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams,
Of Teviot loved while still a child,
Of castled rocks stupendous piled,
By Esk or Eden's classic wave,
Where loves of youth and friendship smiled, Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave!
Fade, daydreams sweet, from memory fade!
The perish'd bliss of youth's first prime,
That once so bright on fancy play'd,
Revives no more in aftertime.
Far from my sacred natal clime,
I haste to an untimely grave;
The daring thoughts that soar'd sublime
Are sunk in Ocean's southern wave.
Slave of the mine! thy yellow light
Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear
A gentle vision comes by night
My lonely widow'd heart to cheer:
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