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On thee, blest youth, a father's hand confers
The maid thy earliest, fondest wishes knew.
Each soft enchantment of the soul is hers;
Thine be the joys to firm attachment due.
As on she moves with hesitating grace,
She wins assurance from his soothing voice;
And, with a look the pencil could not trace,
Smiles thro’ her blushes, and confirms the choice.
Spare the fine tremors of her feeling frame !
To thee she turns-forgive a virgin's fears !
To thee she turns with surest, tenderest claim ;
Weakness that charms, reluctance that endears ;
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!
What lights and shades in sweet confusion blend !
Soon shall they fly, glad harbingers of day,
And settled sunshine on her soul descend !
Ah soon, thine own confest, ecstatic thought !
That hand shall strew thy summer-path with flowers ;
And those blue eyes, with mildest lustre fraught,
Gild the calm current of domestic hours !
Ah! why with tell-tale tongue reveal *
What most her blushes would conceal ?
Why lift that modest veil to trace
The seraph-sweetness of her face ?
Some fairer, better sport prefer ;
And feel for us, if not for her.
For this presumption, soon or late,
Know thine shall be a kindred fate.
Another shall in vengeance rise-
Sing Harriet's cheeks, and Harriet's eyes ;
And, echoing back her wood-notes wild,
- Trace all the mother in the child !
The sun-beams streak the azure skies,
And line with light the mountain's brow:
With hounds and horns the hunters rise,
And chase the roebuck thro' 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,
Up craggy steeps and ridges rude ;
Marked by the wild wolf for his prey,
From desert cave or hanging wood.
And while the torrent thunders loud,
And as the echoing cliffs reply,
The huts peep o'er the morning-cloud,
Perched, like an eagle's nest, on high.
Go-you may call it madness, folly; You shall not chase my gloom away. There's such a charm in melancholy, I would not, if I could, be gay.
Oh, if you knew the pensive pleasure That fills
bosom when I sigh, You would not rob me of a treasure Monarchs are too poor to buy.