THE INCONSTANT. BY EDMUND RYAN, CALLED EDMUND OF THE HILL. BRIGHT her locks of beauty grew, Curling fair and sweetly flowing, And her eyes of smiling blue, Oh how soft! how heav'nly glowing! Ah! poor heart oppress'd with pain, When wilt thou have end of mourning?— This long, long year I look in vain Oh! would thy promise faithful prove, Then once more, at early morn, Cold and scornful as thou art, Love's fond vows and faith belying, Shame for thee now rends my heart, My pale cheek with blushes dying! Why art thou false to me and Love?— While health and joy with thee are vanish'd-Is it because forlorn I rove, Without a crime unjustly banish'd? 'Tis thy Edmund calls thee, Love, O thou dear cause of all my pains, Hear again fond passion suing. Music, mirth and sports are here, Chearful friends the hours beguiling ; Oh! wouldst thou, my Love, appear, Sweet would seem the holly's shade Cresses waving in the stream, Flowers its gentle banks perfuming ; Sweet the verdant paths would seem, All in rich luxuriance blooming. Every scene with thee would please, Would lose their gloom, if thou wert nigh me. O might I call thee now my own, No added rapture joy could borrow; 'Twould be like Heaven, when life is flown, To chear the soul and heal its sorrow. See thy falsehood, cruel maid! See my cheek no longer glowing; Strength departed, health decay'd, Life in tears of sorrow flowing! Why do I thus my anguish tell? Why pride in woe, and boast of ruin ?— O lost treasure, fare thee well! Loved to madness, to undoing. How the swan adorns that neck, There her down and whiteness growing! How its snow those tresses deck, Bright in fair luxuriance flowing! Mine, of right, are all those charms! Cease with coldness then to grieve me; Take, O take me to thy arms, Or those of Death will soon receive me. BY THE SAME. As the sweet blackberry's modest bloom As strawberries, in their rich perfume So thou, fair plant of tender youth, Pulse of my heart; dear source of care, With thee no days can winter seem, Thou the soft breeze, the chearing beam THE COMPLAINT. BY THE SAME. OH! what woes are mine to bear, Life's fair morn with clouds o'ercasting! Doom'd the victim of Despair, Youth's gay bloom pale sorrow blasting. |