The lips may beguile With a dimple or smile, But the test of affection 's a Tear. Too oft is a smile But the hypocrite's wile, To mask detestation, or fear; Give me the soft sigh, Whilst the soul-telling eye Is dimm'd, for a time, with a Tear. Mild Charity's glow, To us mortals below Shews the soul from barbarity clear; Where this virtue is felt, The man doom'd to sail The Soldier braves death, But he raises the foe, When in battle laid low, And bathes ev'ry wound with a Tear. If, with high-bounding pride, He return to his bride, Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear; All his toils are repaid, When, embracing the maid, From her eyelid he kisses the Tear. Sweet scene of my youth, Seat of Friendship and Truth, Where love chas'd each fast-fleeting year; For a last look I turn'd, But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear. Though my vows I can pour To my Mary no more, My Mary, to Love once so dear; I remember the hour, She rewarded those vows with a Tear. By another possest May she live ever blest, Her name still my heart must revere; What I once thought was mine, Ye friends of my heart, This hope to my breast is more near, Where my ashes consume, Oh! moisten their dust with a Tear. May no marble bestow The splendour of woe, Which the children of vanity rear; No fiction of fame Shall blazon my name, THE ORPHAN BOY. THELWALL. ALAS! I am an Orphan Boy, With nought on earth to cheer my heart: And, when the kiss of love goes round, Yet once I had a father dear, A mother too, I wont to prize, But, ah! there came a War, they say- I thought! nor could I thence foresee A scarlet coat my father took,. And sword, as bright as bright could be! And feathers that so gaily look, All in a shining cap had he. Then how my little heart did bound! Nor dreamt that, when the kiss went round, My mother sigh'd, my mother wept, But, when I found he rode so far, And lov'd the fife and drum no more. At length the bell again did ring; But once again-but once again 'Twas when upon her death-bed laid,- So, now, I am an Orphan Boy, And, when the kiss of love goes round, But I will to the grave, and weep, All in her shroud as white as snow. All underneath the church-yard tree, To wrap me in her snow-white shroudFor those cold lips are dear to me. MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN. SOUTHEY. WHO is she, the poor maniac, whose wildly-fix'd eyes Seem a heart overcharg'd to express? No aid, no compassion the maniac will seek, |