AN ITALIAN SONG. DEAR is my little native vale, The ring-dove builds and murmurs there; Close by my cot she tells her tale To every passing villager. The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers, With my loved lute's romantic sound; The shepherd's horn at break of day, Sung in the silent green-wood shade; THE ALPS AT DAY-BREAK. THE sunbeams streak the azure skies, And chase the roebuck through the snow. From rock to rock, with giant-bound, High on their iron poles they pass; Mute, lest the air, convulsed by sound, Rend from above a frozen mass. The goats wind slow their wonted way, And while the torrent thunders loud, ON A TEAR. O! THAT the chemist's magic art The little brilliant, ere it fell, Its lustre caught from CHLOE's eye; Then, trembling, left its coral cellThe spring of Sensibility! Sweet drop of pure and pearly light! In thee the rays of Virtue shine; More calmly clear, more mildly bright, Than any gem that gilds the mine. Benign restorer of the soul! Who ever fly'st to bring relief, The sage's and the poet's theme, 17 That very law which moulds a tear, WRITTEN IN A SICK CHAMBER. 1793. THERE, in that bed so closely curtained round, He stirs yet still he sleeps. May heavenly dreams * TO TWO SISTERS.18 1795. WELL may you sit within, and, fond of grief, O, she was great in mind, though young in years! Changed is that lovely countenance, which shed Played round her lips, and sparkled in her eyes. Those lips so pure, that moved but to persuade, Those eyes at once her secret soul conveyed, Yet has she fled the life of bliss below, That youthful Hope in bright perspective drew? False were the tints! false as the feverish glow That o'er her burning cheek Distemper threw ! And now in joy she dwells, in glory moves! TO A FRIEND ON HIS MARRIAGE. 227 TO A FRIEND ON HIS MARRIAGE. ON thee, blest youth, a father's hand confers As on she moves with hesitating grace, She wins assurance from his soothing voice; And, with a look the pencil could not trace, Smiles through her blushes, and confirms the choice. Spare the fine tremors of her feeling frame! To thee she turns-forgive a virgin's fears! At each response the sacred rite requires, From her full bosom bursts the unbidden sigh. A strange mysterious awe the scene inspires; And on her lips the trembling accents die. O'er her fair face what wild emotions play! And settled sunshine on her soul descend! Ah! soon, thine own confest, ecstatic thought! |