And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Such thoughts to Lucy I will give Here in this happy Dell." Thus Nature spoke.-The work was doneHow soon my Lucy's race was run! She died, and left to me This heath, this calm, and quiet scene; SONNET COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1803. EARTH has not any thing to show more fair: All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. LAMB. HESTER.-A REMEMBRANCE. WHEN maidens such as Hester die, A month or more hath she been dead, A springy motion in her gait, Of pride and joy no common rate, I know not by what name beside Her parents held the Quaker rule, But she was train'd in Nature's school, A waking eye, a prying mind, A heart that stirs, is hard to bind, A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind, Ye could not Hester. My sprightly neighbour, gone before When from thy cheerful eyes a ray VERSES FOR AN ALBUM. FRESH clad from heaven in robes of white, A young probationer of light, Thou wert, my soul, an Album bright, A spotless leaf; but thought, and care, And Time, with heaviest hand of all, And Error, gilding worse designs, Like speckled snake that strays and shinesBetrays his path by crooked lines. My scalded eyes no longer brook Upon this ink-blurr'd thing to look. Go-shut the leaves-and clasp the book! KIRKE WHITE. THE HERB ROSEMARY. SWEET Scented flower! who art wont to bloom On January's front severe, And o'er the wintry desert drear Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now, And sweet the strain shall be, and long, Come, funeral flower! who lov'st to dwell Come, press my lips, and lie with me And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, So peaceful, and so deep. And hark! the wind-god, as he flies, Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine, The cold turf altar of the dead; My grave shall be in yon lone spot, A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed. ODE TO DISAPPOINTMENT. COME, Disappointment, come! Not in thy terrors clad; The restless and the bad. But I recline Beneath thy shrine, And round my brow resign'd thy peaceful cypress twine. Though Fancy flies away Before thy hollow tread, Yet Meditation, in her cell, Hears with faint eye the ling'ring knell, That tells her hopes are dead; And though the tear By chance appear, Yet she can smile, and say, My all was not laid here! What is this passing scene? A peevish April day! A little sun, a little rain, And then night sweeps along the plain, And all things fade away. Man (soon discuss'd) Yields up his trust, And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust. |