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But, lo! at last he comes with crowded sail !
Lo! o'er the cliff what eager figures bend! And, hark,what mingled murmurs swell the gale!
In each he hears the welcome of a friend,
'Tis she, 'tis she herself! she waves her hand!
Soon is the anchor cast, the canvass furld'; Soon through the whitening surge he springs to
land, And clasps the maid he singled from the world.
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER WHO IS DEAD TO ME.
At fond sixteen, my roving heart Was pierced with love's delightful dart: Keen transport throbb’d in every veinI never felt so sweet a pain! Where circling woods embower'd the glade, I met the dear romantic maid : I stole her hand-it shrunk—but, no! 'I would not let my captive go. With all the fervency of youth, While passion told the tale of truth, I mark'd my Hannah's downcast eye, 'Twas kind, but beautifully shy.
Not with a warmer, purer ray,
But, swifter than the frighted dove,
I saw the village steeple rise
The violet sweet and lily fair,
To deck my charming Chloe's hair.
Upon her brow the various wreath ; The flowers less blooming than her face,
The scent less fragrant than her breath. The flowers she wore along the day,
And every nymph and shepherd said, That in her hair they look'd more gay
Than glowing in their native bed. Undress'd at evening, when she found
Their odours lost, their colours pass’d, She changed her look, and on the ground
Her garland and her eye she cast,
That eye dropp'd sense distinct and clear,
As any Muse's tongue could speak, When from its lid a pearly tear
Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek.
Dissembling what I knew too well,
My love, my life,' said I, explain This change of humour; pr’ythee tell,
That falling tear-what does it mean? She sigh’d; she smiled; and to the flowers
Pointing, the lovely moralist said, “See, friend, in some few fleeting hours,
See yonder what a change is made!
And that of Beauty are but one;
Both fade at evening, pale and gone.
The amorous youth around her bow'd; At night her fatal knell was rung;
I saw and kiss'd her in her shroud. • Such as she is who died to-day,
Such I, alas! may be to-morrow; Go, Damon, bid thy Muse display
The justice of thy Chloe's sorrow.'
TO THE RIVER ISIS *.
Fair Isis, thy marge as despairing I lie, Thy Muse-haunted wave with wild florets confined,
[eth nigh, Makes me grieve when I think that the time draw
When for ever, I fear, I must leave thee behind. May thy bosom, with quivering shadows impress'd From the silver green willow that graces thy shore,
[guest, With regret miss the step of a death-stricken
And echo list oft for the sound of his oar. Though her lover is fallen--thy copses among,
When Philomel warbles at close of the day, May no friend be wanting to catch her lorn song,
And welcome the gentlest herald of May! May the suns I have seen, and the cloudless blue skies,
[around, The soft-breathing meads, and the woodlands Still, still feed with raptures a thousand fond eyes,
Though I be far distant, and cold in the ground ! Why dwell on the thought then? sad Fancy, depart,
[spell; And charm me no more with thy treacherous The first of past joys I dismiss from my heart,
When thee, O sweet Isis, I once bid farewell!
• Written during the illness which terminated in his death.