O OFT HAVE I WEPT. O oft have I wept when the wild-wakened strain, As its thrill, gently healing my own bosom pain, O oft would the gleamings of rapture succeed, As the cadence of pleasure has stole; When hope fondly smiled, and the wounds wont to bleed, Acknowledged its balmy control: But ne'er is the thrill which awakens the tear, Though melting in rapture, to me half so dear, As thy notes, lonely bird of the night! While saddened, I list to the deep plaintive song, Memory wakens, disdaining control; The dim flood of ages rolls darkly along, It comes with its deeds on the soul. Then those whom I loved, by affection endeared, Who repose where the tall elders moan, In the still passing whispers of evening are heard, As they sigh o'er the days that have flown, I gaze with emotion: I gaze, but they've fled, Naught remains but the ray on the cold heathy bed, IMPROMPTU, ON READING STANZAS BY GOLDSMITH.. WHEN LOVELY WOMAN STOOPS TO FOLLY." Ah, no! Compassion yet imploring, The thorn of guilt may pierce the sinner, Repentance will succeed the smart; Religion's holy smile shall win her, And Mercy heal the wounded heart. O WHO WOULD LOVE. O WHO would love a world like this, Did not the hope of future bliss Like suns, break out and gild our tears? O who would yield existence' day, NEW ENGLAND. O HOW CANST THOU RENOUNCE THE BOUNDLESS STORE Beattie. NEW ENGLAND, much-loved theme; in thee combined Are kindred titles, with this heart entwined; Country and home, names dear to every breast, Alive to manhood, and with soul possest;— How curst the bosom, cold as Zembla's snow, In whose recess no patriot feelings glow; Shame on the wretch, ne'er let his name be found, Whose soul dishonoured, thrills not with the sound. Say, youthful Muse, how glows the generous heart, With impulse rich, unknown to languid art, How throbs the bosom, warmed with virtuous fire, And kindling zeal, that fain would all inspire, |