We sate ourselves down to a cooling repast, While thrown from my guard by some glances she cast, Love slily stole into my breast! I told my soft wishes; she sweetly replied, Her air was so modest, her aspect so meek; Together we range o'er the slow-rising hills, Or rest on the rock whence the streamlet distils, To pomp or proud titles she ne'er did aspire, The cottager, Peace, is well known for her sire, MAY-EVE; OR, KATE OF ABERDEEN. THE silver moon's enamour'd beam To beds of state go, balmy sleep, ('Tis where you've seldom been) May's vigil while the shepherds keep With Kate of Aberdeen. Upon the green the virgins wait, Till Morn unbar her golden gate, Strike up the tabor's boldest notes, We'll rouse the nodding grove; The nested birds shall raise their throats, And hail the maid I love: And see-the matin lark mistakes, He quits the tufted green: Fond bird! 'tis not the morning breaks, 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen. Now lightsome o'er the level mead, Like them, the jocund dance we'll lead, For see the rosy May draws nigh; She claims a virgin queen; And hark, the happy shepherds cry, 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen. GEORGE LORD LYTTLETON. THIS nobleman's public and private virtues, and his merits as the historian of Henry II. will be remembered when his verses are forgotten. By a felicity very rare in his attempts at poetry, the kids and fawns of his Monody do not entirely extinguish all appearance of that sincere feeling with which it must have been composed. Gray, in a letter to Horace Walpole, has justly remarked the beauty of the stanza beginning "In vain I look around." "If it were all like this stanza," he continues, “I "could be pleased." Nature, and sorrow, and tenderness are the true genius of such things (monodies). Poetical ornaments are foreign to the purpose, for they only shew a man is not sorry, and devotion worse, for it teaches him that he ought not to be sorry, which is all the pleasure of the thing. FROM THE MONODY. AT length escap'd from every human eye, That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share, In vain I look around O'er all the well-known ground, Where oft in tender talk We saw the summer sun go down the sky; Along the valley, can she now be found: Can aught of her espy, But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie. Sweet babes, who, like the little playful fawns, Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns By your delighted mother's side, Who now your infant steps shall guide? Ah! where is now the hand whose tender care To every virtue would have form'd your youth, And strew'd with flowers the thorny ways of truth? O loss beyond repair! O wretched father! left alone, To weep their dire misfortune, and thy own! Now she, alas! is gone, From folly and from vice their helpless age to save? O best of wives! O dearer far to me Were yielded to my arms, How can my soul endure the loss of thee? |