The breathing tint, the beamy ray,
The linear harmony divine
That o'er the form of beauty play,
Might warm a colder heart than mine,
But not for ever bind.
But when to radiant form and feature
Internal worth and feeling join,
With temper mild and gay good nature,一
Around the willing heart they twine
The empire of the mind.
Он, frown not on my daring vows,
Thou high-born maid of Inistore!
Well mayst thou claim a nobler spouse,
But, Mary, will he love thee more?
When Winter's howling storms arise,
More fondly will he clasp thee round?
Gaze with more rapture in those eyes,
Or wake the song's diviner sound?
Tell thee if proud, exalted power
Had placed him on a royal throne,
In favouring fortune's brightest hour
He'd prize her smiles for thee alone!'
Tell thee if some lone turf were given
A pillow for his weary head,
That desert spot to him were heaven,
If Mary shared his humble bed!'
Oh, frown not on my daring vows
Thou high-born maid of Inistore!
Well mayst thou claim a nobler spouse,
But, Mary, will he love thee more?
HERE'S the vow she falsely swore,
Here's the heart she's broken-
Here's the lock she gave before,
Ah! who could doubt the token?
Her vow recorded still remains,
But where's the lip that swore it?
Her ringlet still my neck enchains,
But where's the brow that wore it?
Swiftly flew my hours away
When faithful Beauty prized me;
Slow has dragged the heavy day
Since faithless Love despised me.
Yet, perchance, in lonely thought
Mary's breast may languish;
'Seek the solitude I've sought,'
And share my tender anguish.
If that thought should e'er arise,
Oh! let it not distress her-
For though her injured lover dies,
His dying breath shall bless her.
Here's the vow she falsely swore,
Here's the heart she's broken-
Here's the lock she gave before,
Ah! who could doubt the token?
'Twas not the quick and dazzling glance
That fires and overpowers the soul,
And wraps it in delirious trance,
That bow'd me to thy sweet control:
No! 'twas from eyes of heavenly blue,
A languid, tender, timid ray,
Stealing through lids of darkest hue,
That won me from myself away.
'Twas not the firm commanding voice,
Whose rapid eloquence o'erflows,
And seems at homage to rejoice,
That roused my breast from dull repose:
No! 'twas the soft and melting tones,
Like nectar dropping from thy tongue,
By which my heart thy empire owns;
Its every chord to passion strung.
And while that winning voice I hear,
And while those beaming eyes I see,
Than light or life to me more dear,
My bosom's sovereign thou must be!
WHEN far beneath the western wave the orb of [mantle spreads, And Twilight o'er the tired earth her dewy And all the birds, save Philomel, their warbled strains have ended, [their leafy beds; And, lull'd by whispering zephyr, sleep within
dwelling,
I fly the sound of human voice, the sight of human [along, A melancholy wanderer, to rove the woods And there, while tears my eyes o'erflow, while
grief my heart is swelling,
I break the silence of the night by many a mournful song!
O! ask you why alone I rove, why ceaselessly I [bids me wander so: 'Tis Love that saddens all my thoughts, that But who the maid, whose magic power has fill'd
my soul with anguish, [must know. No mortal ear has ever heard, no mortal ear
THE gale breathes soft, the moon's pale beam
Light trembles on the murmuring stream;
And while her vigils Silence keeps,
From sorrow free, tired Labour sleeps;
Even the poor vagrant finds repose,
Nor thinks till morning-dawn of woes;
But I, alas! the sad night long
Awake the lute and plaintive song.
No more I strive by hardy deed
To win immortal Glory's meed-
While others snatch the palm of praise
I waste in grief the lingering days;
With pallid cheek, and sunken eye,
From all that once was lovely fly;
Tell my deep anguish to the air,
And cherish in my breast despair.
But thou, for whom in life's fair bloom
I sink untimely to the tomb,
Thou sleep'st, my love, still be thy breast
With soft and balmy slumbers bless'd.
Sleep on, my Clara! I must feel
Awhile those pains no art can heal;
But near their end in death I see,
Nor murmur, since I die for thee!
A MORNING SALUTATION.
THOU rose of my love! from thy slumber arise! The dawn from the orient empurples the skies; The lark the blue regions of ether explores, And exultingly trills his wild notes as he soars; Now they sink in soft murmurs, now rapid and clear All their melodies pour on the wondering ear. The drops of the dew, liquid gems of the morn, Dart their tremulous rays from the white blos
And opening its leaves to the breath of the gales, Each bloom and each floret its fragrance exhales. But nor odours nor songs nor bright hues can
A pleasure to gladden thy lover's fond heart; When absent from thee he still thinks on thy
And sighs to be folded once more in thy arms. Then, rose of my love! in thy beauty appear, And the songs and the odours again will be dear; The beams of the dawn with fresh glory be crown'd, And the soul of delight breathe enchantment
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