TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER. SWEET girl! though only once we met, What though we never silence broke, Our eyes a sweeter language spoke ; The tongue in flattering falsehood deals, And tells a tale it never feels: Deceit the guilty lips impart, And hush the mandates of the heart; As thus our glances oft conversed, And all our bosoms felt rehearsed, For as on thee my memory ponders, Thy form appears through night, through day: In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams; And bids me curse Aurora's ray Alas! again no more we meet, The dictate of my bosom's care: "May Heaven so guard my lovely Quaker, That anguish never can o'ertake her; But bliss be aye her heart's partaker. SONG. WHEN I roved a young Highlander o'er the dark heath, And climbed thy steep summit, oh Morven of snow: To gaze on the torrent that thundered beneath, Or the mist of the tempest that gathered below, Untutored by science, a stranger to fear, And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew, No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear; Need I say, my sweet Mary, 'twas centred in you? Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name,What passion can dwell in the heart of a child? But still I perceive an emotion the same As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-covered wild: One image alone on my bosom impressed, I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new; And few were my wants, for my wishes were blessed; And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with you. I arose with the dawn; with my dog as my guide, And heard at a distance the Highlander's song: For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you. I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone; And delight but in days I have witnessed before: When I see some dark hill point its crest to the sky, I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbleen; When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye, I think on those eyes that endeared the rude scene: I think of the long-flowing ringlets of gold, Yet the day may arrive when the mountains once more Ah! Mary, what home could be mine but with you? 6 TO M. S. G. WHEN I dream that you love me, you'll surely forgive, Extend not your anger to sleep; For in visions alone your affection can live,— I rise, and it leaves me to weep. Then, Morpheus! envelope my faculties fast, Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last, They tell us that slumber, the sister of death, Mortality's emblem is given: To fate how I long to resign my frail breath, If this be a foretaste of heaven. Ah! frown not sweet lady, unbend your soft brow, Nor deem me too happy in this; If I sin in my dream, I atone for it now, Thus doomed but to gaze upon bliss. Though in visions, sweet lady, perhaps you may smile, Oh! think not my penance deficient ! When dreams of your presence my slumber beguile, To awake will be torture sufficient. |