Now Spring wakes the May-morn, the sweetest of
Calls the lark to the sun-beam, the bee to the flowers;
Calls Youth, Love, and Beauty to hail the new day,
And twine all their garlands in honor of May;
But think not, amid the gay pleasures they bring,
That moments, so jocund, will pause on their wing!
Obey, my fair Laura, the summons that breathes
In the scent of the flowers, in the hue of the leaves;
In the hymn of the woodlands, for Love is the lay,
And fragrance, and lustre, are types of his sway;
More sweet are his accents, more rosy his spring,
And O! not less rapid the flight of his wing!
GENTLY emerging from the gloomy Main,
The Star of Morn shines on the dewy plain;
So, from the night of anxious doubts and fears,
Rises Hope's radiant star on my long-darken'd years.
Source of its fires, my Laura, say
Shall their delightful lustre prove
Blest harbingers of wedded Love,
And lead his soft, his sunny day,
Warm with each pure, each lively beam
Of gay desire and fix'd esteem;
Faith, stainless faith, affection dear,
And sympathy's consoling tear?
These, Laura, these shall banish care and strife.
And draw the thorns from every rose of life.
BY ANNA SEWARD.
WAKE and weep, when wintry winds
Are howling loud upon the lea,
And louder gales my fancy finds
For William on the foaming sea;
But, calming soon the pictur'd storm,
Sweet hopes into my bosom creep,
And tell me summer-breezes warm
Shall waft him safely o'er the Deep.
Four years on India's sultry coast
Has War's rude voice my Love detain'd,
While here, to every pleasure lost,
His Anna's languid form remain'd.
And o'er the steep rock still to lean,
Still eager watch each gliding sail.
That languid Form is duly seen
At ruddy morn, and evening pale.
But ah! no handkerchief I mark
Stream from the deck in crimson dye!
Dear signal! wanting thee, the Bark
Is hail'd by many a mournful sigh.
Its shouts discordant seem to me,
That echo from the stony pier,
Since William's face I cannot see,
Since William's voice I cannot hear!
HAST thou escap'd the Canon's ire,
Loud thundering o'er the troubled Main?
Hast thou escap'd the fever's fire
That burns so fierce on India's plain?
Then, William, then I can resign,
With scarce one sigh, the blooming grace
Which in thy form was wont to shine
Which made so bright thy youthful face.
That face grows wan by sultry clime,
By watching dim those radiant eyes,
But Love disdains the rage of Time,
Tho' Youth decays, tho' Beauty flies;
An honest heart is all to me,
Nor soil, nor time, makes that look old,
And dearer shall the jewel be
Than Youth, or Beauty, Fame, or gold.
From a Gentleman to a Lady, who by frequent inexpressible Hints had given him to understand that she was engaged.
BY THE REV. C. P. JUN. 1785.
'Tis the lot of us short-sighted mortals on earth
With rapture to fly to each glitt❜ring bait;
Each poisonous joy to which Folly gives birth;
Till wrapp'd in delusion we mourn at our fate.
Say, say dearest Girl, when a moth you have seen
With quivering wings round the candle-light play,
Say did not your pitying hand intervene,
And drive the poor fluttering insect away ?
Still obstinate, still to the contest returning,
Your pity, he, prone to destruction, disclaims; Too near he approaches, his wings now are burning, A self-condemn'd Martyr he dies in the flames.
Thus caught by the lustre which beam'd from your eyes;
Thus hov'ring around on your image I dwell; With tenderest words you thus seem to advise, "My heart is another's, your passion expel."
In vain your advice and your pity are given;
By repulsion more eager, more heated, I fly;
Like Icarus fly, too, too near to my Heaven,
Till melted, like him, by my rashness I die.
But be not severe, nor my folly despise,
As caught by a bauble, a glittering toy!
Had you beauty alone, in spight of those eyes,
(The sweets of vain beauty in time ever cloy)
My passion had cool'd, and my flame been expended;
Nor I destin'd the fate of the insect to prove :
But you have a temper with tenderness blended,
The greatest must envy, the wisest must love.
TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS.
Odi, et amo. Quare id faciani fortasse requiris.
Nescio: sed fieri sentio, et excrucior.
THAT I LOVE thee, and yet that I HATE thee, I feel. Impatient, thou bidst me my reasons explain:
I tell thee, nor more for my life can reveal,
That I LOVE thee, and HATE thee-and tell it with pain.
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