1 "HE faded, and so calm and meek, I called, and thought I heard a sound--- I only lived, I only drew The accursed breath of dungeon dew; SONNET. IT seem'd, fair foe, in humour like thine own, The hands of Nature, Beauty, Grace had thrown Beauty, thy features form'd, and lit thine eyes, A heart beyond mere beauty's power to warm, Illumed thy pleasing form with peerless mind, A spell, which, while it beats, this wond'ring soul must ISIDORE. bind. LOUISA---THE FLOWER OF THE TYNE. Her eyes the bright gems of Golconda outshine, The snow-drop, and lily, would die on her bosom, Consumed in her splendour, the flower of the Tyne. So charming each feature, so guileless her nature, The youths fondly gaze, and pronounce her divine, So witchingly pretty, so modestly witty.-- My heart's stolen sigh is the flower of the Tyne. Her aspect so noble, yet sweetly inviting, The Loves and the Graces her temples entwine; In manners, the saint and the syren uniting,--Blooms lovely Louisa, the flower of the Tyne. Tho' fair, Caledonia, the nymphs of thy mountains, Tho' graceful and straight, as thy own silver pine, Tho' fresh as thy breezes, and pure as thy fountains, Yet fairer to me is the flower of the Tyne, This poor throbbing heart one whole offering I give her, One temple to love be this bosom of mine, O smile on thy victim, Louisa!---for ever I'll kneel at thy altar, thou flower of the Tyne! Banks of the Ale, October, 1818. RED IS THE ROSE; A Dirge, written for the 18th of June: How stately the oak that o'ershadows the Tay, Now blasted its beauty, and left to decay, G. ST. And the wild flowers are weeping o'er Johnny, O. How gay to the pibroch they mustered that morn, The brave men of Athol, and heroes of Lorn, The flower of Braidalbin, the pride of his clan, The Gael's purest blood in his manly breast ran, But three little weeks-and I'm reft of the brave, The blaze of his glory, now hallows his grave, They bid me be glad, on the day of his fame, I'm proud of his valour, and proud of his name, Yes-proud are the trophies that blazon our hall, But the sad heart must sob, and the trembling tear fall, And I'll weep till I die, for my Johnny, O. On each coming morn, of my country's proud day, Red is the rose, and bonny, O! I'll plait a fine wreath by the oak of the Tay, A love-woven garland for Johnny, Now, Athol, thy woodlands I'll traverse afar, And talk to his ghost, the poor victim of war, MORNING THOUGHT. MARIA. Oh the dreams of gay childhood are careless and sweet, Where flowers and soft music and butterflies meet, Where the woods are more green, and the meadows more fair, Than the woods or the meadows of truth ever were!' But the dreams of gay childhood are nothing in sooth, When match'd with the visions of passionate youth; Where all pleasures are raptures, which nought can excel, Their source, the pure heaven of that eye loved so well. Then the flowers, are the lilies that bloom on that brow, And the music, that voice, which in dreams deigns to vow. And the bright varying blushes, so quickly that fly, Who shall dare to dispute, that thou know'st to repay, SIGHS. THERE is a Sigh---that, half suppress'd, It rises from the spotless breast, The first faint dawn of tender care. There is a sigh---so soft, so sweet, It breathes not from the lip of woe, |