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On beds of snow the moon-beam slept,
And chilly was the midnight gloom, When by the damp grave Ellen wept
Sweet maid ! it was her Lindor's tomb!
A warm tear gush'd; the wintry air
Congeal'd it as it flow'd away : All night it lay an ice-drop there,
At morn it glitter'd in the ray.
An Angel, wand'ring from her sphere,
Who saw this bright, this frozen gem, To dew-eyed Pity brought the tear,
And hung it on her diadem!
ON THROWING AWAY A FLOWER.
Sweet Flower, which now I cast away,
Alas! to wither and to die, Thee for thy sweets I would repay, Thou beauty of a summer's day,
And sing thine elegy.
Sweet daughter of the aged year,
Which from thy stem my hand did sever, To taste and feeling thou art dear, And claim'st the tribute of a tear,
Before we part for ever.
For ever!-what a volume lies
Within those simple words alone ! How we regret, how dearly prize What once was trifling in our eyes,
When 'tis for ever flown!
And lovely peep'd amid the green
Thy modest head, sweet innocent ! Like some fair maid, the village queen, Thy simple beauties bloom'd unseen,
In calm, secure content.
And many a kiss has been imprest
Upon thy young and modest charms : The bee has nestled in thy breast ; The fairy oft has been thy guest,
And slept within thine arms.
Yet thee my thoughtless hand has tom
From home and happiness away,
In premature decay.
Alas! the hapless village maid,
Once fair as thou in youthful bloom, Now victim of her beauty made, May view in thee ber life portray'd,
And envy thee thy tomb.
And man! what is he but a flower ?
The vernal morn beholds him rise; He blooms a short uncertain hour, Till, blasted by death's with’ring power,
He in the evening dies.
Farewell, sweet flower ! here peaceful lie,
Beneath this aged willow sleep:
Shall o'er thy ashes weep.
And, oh! when low is laid my head,
When death the vital thread shall sever, Shall the sad Muse then mourn me dead? Shall Friendship's tear for me be shed ? And will it with a sigh be said,
That I am gone for ever?
FROM SCENES OF INFANCY.
DR JOHN LEYDEN.
SWEET scenes of youth, to faithful memory dear,
new! Green was her vesture, glowing, fresh, and warm, And every op'ning grace had power to charm; While, as each scene in living lustre rose, Each young emotion wak'd from soft repose.
Ev'n as I muse, my former life returns,
On these fair banks thine ancient bards no more, Enchanting stream! their melting numbers pour ; But still their viewless harps, on poplars hung, Sigh the soft airs they learn'd when time was young: And those who tread with boly feet the ground, At lonely midnight, hear their silver sound; When river breezes wave their dewy wings, And lightly fan the wild enchanted strings.
As every prospect opens on my view, I seem to live departed years anew; When in these wilds a jocund, sportive child, Each flower self-sown my heedless hours beguil'd; The wabret leaf, that by the pathway grew, The wild-brier rose, of pale and blushful hue, The thistle's rolling wheel, of silken down, The blue-bell, or the daisy's pearly crown, The gaudy butterfly, in wanton round, That, like a living pea-flower, skimm'd the ground.
Again I view the cairn, and moss-gray stone,
Again I view each rude romantic glade, Where once with tiny steps my childhood stray'd, To watch the foam-bells of the bubbling brook, Or mark the motions of the clam'rous rook, Who saw her nest, close thatch'd with ceaseless toil, At summer eve become the woodman's spoil.
Sweet scenes ! conjoin'd with all that most
endears The cloudless morning of my tender years; With fond regret your haunts I wander o'er, And wand'ring feel myself the child no more: Your forms, your sunny tints, are still the same; But sad the tear which lost affections claim.
STANZAS WRITTEN IN A STORM AT SEA.
That sky of clouds is not the sky
Of her he loves
That rapture moves.
Yet do I feel more tranquil far,
In this dark hour,