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The storm wind came from the northern hill, The breasts of the flowers opposed the blast,
Its keen cold scythe laid them dead and still, But the Violet low it passed.
Oh lowliness, lowliness, dearest lot,
Thee pride never dazzles, nor care deforms;
The sun of prosperity harms thee not,
Nor the blast from the hill of storms'
L IN E S.
(By James Edmeston.)
DEARER far to me, above
All the gay account a treasure;
Memory of the lost of love,
Art thou pain, or art thou pleasure ?
Art thou pleasure ?—Such a smart
Never surely tokened weal;
Is it pain that thrills my heart?
'Tis a pain I love to feel:
Lightsome sorrow, gloomy gladness,
Sad delight, delightful sadness!
(By James Edmeston.)
Love is a bird of summer skies,
From cold and from winter he soon departs,
He basks in the beam of good-humoured eyes,
And delights in the warmth of open hearts:
And where he has once found chill and rain,
He seldom returns to that bower again.
Harriet's brow was passing fair,
And Love in the shape of a mortal sprite,
Came to bask in the sunshine there,
And plume his soft wings for delight:
But a winter cloud would oft come o'er,
And then for a time,
Without reason or rhyme,
That sun would shine no more;
But chills and clouds the sky deform,
Cold and dark as December's storm.
It chanced in one of these winter showers,
As a cloud passed by,
(No one knew why)
And frightened poor Love from his garden of flowers,
He wandered in sadness away, away,
Till he came to a bower that stood hard by:
Here all was a sunny summer's day,
And never a cloud came over that eye,
But morning and night,
It beamed ever bright,
With spirit, and joy, and courtesy'
He laid himself down—the hours flew o'er,
He thought of the spot he had left no more,
For all was here,
Without shadow or fear,
And each moment was sweet as the air before.
Some friend of poor HARRIET passing that way,
Saw Love in the flowers, and told the maid,
That not long ago she had seen him lay
Reclined in the bower of ADELAIDE:
“No matter,” said she, “let him wander awhile,
I can, when I please, bring him back by a smile.”
But Ladies who trust so much to their power,
To recover the heart their caprice has lost,
Will prove in many a bitter hour,
The danger of playing with Love to their cost!
Many a day and week passed by,
And Harriet, though she would not tell
That she loved the wanderer deep and well,
Breathed many a secret sigh:
And she managed to get it conveyed to the swain,
By some kind friend in a roundabout way,
That if he thought proper to seek her again,
The weather in future might be more gay!
Hove declined with a bow, “I thank you, my dear,
I am perfectly happy and free from care,
I ne'er saw other than summer here,
And why run the risk of winter there 2"