So, in life's youthful bloomy prime, But, by some unexpected blow, And mourn them when too late. MIDNIGHT. ANONYMOUS. 'Tis midnight deep: o'er all the vacant plains The wailing owl, that ceaseless all night long And nodding o'er her children, seems to share SIGHS. MRS HENRY ROLLS. THERE is a sigh that, half supprest, There is a sigh➡so soft, so sweet, It breathes not from the lip of woe; 'Tis heard where conscious lovers meet, Whilst yet untold young passion's glow. There is a sigh-short, deep, and strong, There is a sigh-that speaks regret, Of bliss that ne'er must wake again. There is a sigh-that, deeply breath'd, There is a sigh-that slowly swells, That last worst pang, fond love's despair. SMILES. MRS HENRY ROLLS. WHAT is that smile that o'er the cheek That charms the mother's tender gaze 'Tis the bright sun of April's morn, That rises with unsullied ray; ? Nor marks the clouds, that swift are borne To wrap in shades the future day! What is that soft, that languid smile, 'Tis the bright dew-drop on the rose, Sweet remnant of the early shower, That will its ripen'd leaves unclose, And to full fragrance spread the flower! What is that smile, whose rapt'rous glow Passion's impetuous breath inspires, Whilst Pleasure's gaudy blossoms blow, And the eye beams with guilty fires? 'Tis the volcano's baleful blaze, What is that sad, that transient smile, 'Tis but a veil cast o'er the heart, When youth's gay dreams have pass'd away; When joy's faint ling'ring rays depart, And the last gleams of hope decay! What is that bright, that fearful smile, 'Tis the wild lurid lightning's gleam, What is that smile, calm, fix'd at last, 'Tis the rich glowing western beam, THE LOVER'S COMPLAINT. BARNABY GOOGE. THE rushing rivers that do run, The valleys sweet, adorned new, That lean their sides against the sun, While winter, black with hideous storms, Doth spoil the ground of summer's green, While spring-time sweet the leaf returns, That late on tree could not be seen; While summer burns, while harvest reigns, Still, still do rage my restless pains. No ease I find in all my smart, But endless torment I sustain; Since first, alas! my woful heart By sight of thee was forc'd to 'plain; Since that I lost my liberty, Since that thou mad'st a slave of me. My heart, that once abroad was free, And now is wit consum'd with thought. Once I rejoic'd above the sky; And now, for thee, alas! I die. Once I rejoic'd in company; And now, my chief and whole delight And keep, alone, my wearied sprite. O Nature, thou that first did'st frame Her face of crystal to the same, Her lips of precious rubies' mould; |