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But bitter, bitter are the tears
Of her who slighted love bewails,
No pleasing melancholy hails.
Of blasted hope, of wither'd joy :
The flame she fed burns to destroy.
The scenes once tinged in transport's dye; The sad reverse soon starts to view,
And turns the past to agony. Even conscious Virtue cannot cure
The pangs to every feeling due; Ungenerous youth! thy boast how poor,
To win a heart,--and break it too! No cold approach, no alter'd mien,
Just what would make Suspicion start, No pause the dire extremes between;
He made me blest,—and broke my heart. From Hope, the wretched's anchor, torn,
Neglected, and neglecting all; Friendless, forsaken, and forlorn, The tears I shed must ever fall!
MRS. D. STEWART.
THE BANKS OF NITH.
To thee, loved Nith, whose gladsome plains
So late I traced with careless breast, I bring again a heart unchanged,
Though torn with grief, with care oppress’d.
Ye scenes of dear departed joys
With transport felt, with transport sung, To other lays your gales have sigh'd
With blyther notes your echoes rung. And now your banks and bonnie braes
But waken sad remembrance' smart; The very shades I held most dear
Now strike fresh anguish to my heart: Deserted bower! where are they now?
Ah! where the garlands that I wove With faithful care, each morn to deck
The altars of ungrateful love? The flowers of spring how gay they bloom'd
When last with Him I wandered here, The flowers of spring have passed away
For wintry horrors dark and drear. Yon osier'd stream, by whose lone banks
My songs have lull’d him oft to rest, Is now in icy fetters lock’d,
Cold as my false love's frozen breast. Though music brings its wonted charm,
The soothing power no more I prove, For how can peace that reed impart
Which vibrates yet with fondest love? Ah! vainly, vainly do I mourn,
And vainly, vainly hope relief; Yet come, my reed—thy tuneful art
Shall waft, in plaintive sounds, my grief. Ye banks of Nith, prolong the strain,
And if my love still court your shade, Say, though I deeply mourn the change,
The charmer I can ne'er upbraid.
Tell him, inconstant though he be,
My faith can ne'er from him depart; His are the tears that drown my song, And his the sighs that rend my heart.
THE MAID WITH BOSOM COLD.
OF me they cry, I'm often told
See there the maid with bosom cold!
The joy o'er all my looks express'd
Unable from myself to fly,
With anxious toil, with ceaseless care,
W, SMYTH. THE LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS IN
DECLINING HEALTH. PRIDE of yon lawns whose living gems
Bespangle Flora's summer vest, Smote by the daystar's sultry beams
The musk rose bows her blushing crest. Unwonted grief my breast invades,
Cynthia! that drooping rose art thou; And envious malady o'ershades
The graces of thy lovely brow. E'en now her withering touch I view
Steal from thy cheek health's crimson dye; And languor each bright glance subdue
That told my heart love's embassy. Pallid thy lip, that Venus bless'd
With ruby tints, with rich perfumes; Where he, whose arrows pierce my breast,
In nectar bathed his little plumes. Thy bosom’s heavenly orbs of snow
Swell not above its circling zone, And faintly throbs that heart below,
Which beat for love and me alone. Ah! should inexorable Fate
To his dark realms my fair consign, Shall Thyrsis ask a longer date?
No! let thy parting hour be mine! Sever'd through life's inclement day,
O! give thy last fond sigh to me; ' And bless'd the mandate I'll obey That weds my soul in death to thee.