And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound, Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse Summoning from the innumerable boughs To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, His temples, while his breathing grows more deep; And softly part his curtains to allow Go, but the circle of eternal change, Which is the life of nature, shall restore, BRYANT. A red, red Rose. O MY luve's like a red, red rose, That's sweetly played in tune. And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run. Tho' it were ten thousand mile. BURNS. To the Nightingale. O NIGHTINGALE, that on yon blooming spray Whether the Muse, or Love, call thee his mate, MILTON. Sonnet. THRICE happy he who by some shady grove, But doth converse with that eternal Love: O how more sweet is bird's harmonious moan, DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN. Song. Go, lovely Rose ! Tell her that wastes her time and me, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied, In deserts where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired: Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. Then die! that she The common fate of all things rare How small a part of time they share WALLER. |