But, lo! at last he comes with crowded sail! 'Tis she, 'tis she herself! she waves her hand! Soon is the anchor cast, the canvass furl'd; Soon through the whitening surge he springs to land, And clasps the maid he singled from the world. S. ROGERS. HANNAH.* SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER WHO IS DEAD TO ME. AT fond sixteen, my roving heart Where circling woods embower'd the glade, I stole her hand-it shrunk-but, no! 'I would not let my captive go. With all the fervency of youth, Not with a warmer, purer ray, But, swifter than the frighted dove, And in his train a thousand woes; Yet, in the glory of my pride, I stood and all his wrath defied; I stood though whirlwinds shook my brain, I shunn'd my nymph; yet knew not why I shunn'd her for I could not bear Yet, sick at heart with hope delay'd, The storm blew o'er, and in my breast 'Twas on the morning of that day O! as I cross'd the neighbouring plain, I saw the village steeple rise My soul sprang, sparkling, in mine eyes; My fond heart listen'd in mine ear. I reach'd the hamlet; all was gay; I met a wedding-stepp'd aside; MONTGOMERY. THE GARLAND. THE pride of every grove I chose, And every nymph and shepherd said, That eye dropp'd sense distinct and clear, Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek. Dissembling what I knew too well, She sigh'd; she smiled; and to the flowers Ah me! the blooming pride of May 'At dawn poor Stella danced and sung, 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.' PRIOR. TO THE RIVER ISIS *. FAIR Isis, thy marge as despairing I lie, Thy Muse-haunted wave with wild florets con fined, [eth nigh, Makes me grieve when I think that the time drawWhen 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! HEADLEY. * Written during the illness which terminated in his death. |