The mind is his where darkness low'rs, And his the heart that mine should flee. May mem❜ry to thy mind present The PAST, with gentle, placid mien, And may thy PRESENT hours be bright, But, for the FUTURE-O! may they Be crown'd with bliss, and wealth, and fame; And may this little, humble lay Be lost 'midst songs that sound thy name. VIOLETTA. * "And Hope, enchanted, smil'd, and wav'd her golden hair." COLLINS. TO A WITHERED ROSE. HARRIET FENNO. How fair wert thou when first mine eye Caught the light tint thy leaves that drest, Just bursting from obscurity, To court the zephyr to thy breast! To me thou did'st recall the time," Thou too, like me, wert but half-blown, He bow'd thy unassuming head, Thy lively green is faded too, And thou dost not one trace retain Of that sweet flower the Persians woo, To waft its perfume o'er the plain. Q Poor Rose, adieu! may I, like thee, When "death has laid my green head low," Have some fond friend to sigh for me, And mourn for buds that never blow. VIOLETTA. A gentleman of Philadelphia, who had in his possession a blank-book, which once belonged to the poet SHENSTONE, gave it to the translator of Anacreon, with the ensuing address: TO THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. SOME gentle god inspires thy clay, When the soft, tender sighs of love And, when with gay, fantastic mirth, "Tis Bacchus revelling on earth, Impassion❜d child of love and joy, And mix thy cup without alloy, This sacred page, for Shenstone's muse design'd, Shall drink the sweeter transports of thy mind. H. LINES WRITTEN AFTER THE DEPARTURE OF T. MOORE, ESQ. FROM PHILADELPHIA. How oft have I seen, at the first blush of morning, The wretch, to whose eye-lids repose were a treasure, Turn, sad, on his pillow, and snatch a short slumber, As fancy, the while, wove her visions of plea sure. And then in his light-dreams, all fleeting as showers, That kiss the new grass, in the morning of spring, His fair one would smile, as he sigh'd all his passion And, blushing, receive from his fingers the ring. At a moment like this, the bright vision would vanish! In vain would he woo the soft god back again, The dream of his fancy had gone, and he sigh’d That pleasure should fly from the footsteps of pain. Thus to me, youthful stranger! (whom fate has permitted, To charm us, from friends and from country to roam,) Thyself wert the vision, that flitted before me, That stole to my bosom, and made it a home. But the rainbow of evening can linger not long, Its mellow tints fade, and we watch it in vain, And the rose bud, that blooms in the morning of May, Soon loses its sweets-but its thorns still remain. And yet, if kind mem'ry be doom'd to revive JAQUES. |