Imatges de pÓgina

For one who lov'd the passing hour
But when it left a thought of thee:
And wilt thou-yes, when life is o'er,
When then no longer shall deplore
This heart its ill-starr'd love,

When not a pang its frame shall pierce,
When not a hope its sorrows nurse,
And not a passion move;

Then wilt thou-and the tear shall start,
Then wilt thou mourn this wounded heart,
That lov'd, ah, dearly loy'd! nor could its
griefs impart.


Soft as the dews of autumn weep,
When thirsty all the vales are still,
Pure as the unsunn'd snows that sleep,
And gleam upon the northern hill;
So soft, so pure the gentle sigh,

That swelling heav'd that tender breast
So pure each ruder thought must die,
And calm the turbid spirit rest.
Not softer steals the wanton breeze
Amid the foliage of the trees,

Amid the flow'rets bloom,

When meek they lift the dewy head,
And slow the grateful moisture shed,
And breathe the rich perfume,


What time o'er yonder woody dell,

Whilst pausing slow the evening bell,

The red sun ling'ring gleams, then takes his last farewell.


Blest is the cottage youth at eve,

Who, whilst the moon-beam lights the shade,
Shall in his faithful arms receive

The trembling, blushing, willing, maid:
And blest is she, that willing maid:
Who, all her blooming charms resign'd,
Still finds, nor wish nor vow betray'd,
For still the favour'd youth is kind:
Ah! blest indeed, thus love repaid,
Blest is the youth who loves the maid
And is belov'd again!

Tho' not for me, in Fate's dark round,
Not one such flatt'ring scene be found,
Not one full pause from pain;
Yet, Laura, not for worlds would I
The sweet, the pensive pleasure fly,

To dream, to muse of thee, to fold mine
arms, and sigh.

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Curs'd be the wretch, tho' from his view
All hope of fond possession fade,

Who bids to each soft thought adieu,
And can forget the tender maid:
For him, no tear shall bathe the eye,
For him, may no sweet accent breathe,
Pale in his arms enjoyment die,

And Love, contemning, drop his wreath;
I would not wan Indiff'rence choose,
I would not those sensations lose

That thrill the breast of Hope;
No, nor those gloomy raptures Ay,
Which lift the mingling passions high,
And give them ample scope;

For all that Wisdom ever gave,
For all the hoarding fool can save,

For all that Splendor loves, or blood-stain'd
Despots rave.


Come then, O Love! from that sweet isle,
Where, as the purple beams retire,
The soft enamour'd wood-nymphs smile,
And heave the sigh of warm desire:
O come! and thro' my willing soul,
Still, still, thy wild contagion dart,
Still bid the glowing tumult roll,

And give to bleed this wounded heart :
This heart so wounded, that to deem
It ere could spurn the tender theme,

A theme so tender spurn,

Were vain, were hopeless as to prove,
That apathy could melt to love,
Or pity cease to mourn;
No, my lov'd Laura! ere from thee
Again my wounded heart be free,

Pale sleeps that wounded heart beneath the grass-grown lea.


Yet tell me, say why thus severe?

Say, Laura, why those charms withhold? No, tell me not-I will not hear

O be the ruthless tale untold!
I know my fate-to love in vain-
To love-its mutual bliss to fly-
To love-its fiercest pangs sustain-

To sink beneath the Tyrant's eye:
Then ah, farewel! nor blame the youth
Whose lips express'd, with artless truth,
The wish that Hope had giv'n-
Oh, when at eve, the setting beam
Shall on the tomb's pale mansions gleam,
Whilst mourn the gales of heav'n;

Oh fail not then, with pity blest,

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To strew with flowers my clay-cold breast, To breathe one tender sigh, and bid my spirit rest.

In the annexed Ode to Pity, of which STERNE forms the most conspicuous figure, an appeal is made, not to the life, but to the pathetic writings of that eccentric Genius. His ludicrous productions, a compound of quaintness and obscene allusion, and, as it has lately appeared, possessing but little originality, I consider as forming no part of the basis, on which his literary reputation rests; and his personal conduct I understand to have been accompanied with a levity, very inconsistent with the profession he had chosen to exercise. It is to Sterne, merely as the author of Le Fevre, Maria and the Monk, compositions which breathe the purest morality, and display the most touching simplicity, both in sentiment and style, that the following lines are addressed; to one, of whom, in this capacity, every member of the republic of letters may, with propriety say—

Sterne, the quick tear, that checks our wond'ring smile,

In sudden pause, or unexpected story,
Owns thy true mast'ry; and Le Fevre's woes,
Maria's wand'rings, and the Pris'ner's throes,
Fix thee conspicuous on the shrine of glory.


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