TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN AT THE THEATRE. MAIDEN, that with sullen brow Him who lured thee and forsook, Anxious heard his fervid phrase. Soft the glances of the youth, Soft his speech, and soft his sigh; But no sound like simple truth, But no true love in his eye. Loathing thy polluted lot, Hie thee, Maiden, hie thee hence! Seek thy weeping Mother's cot, With a wiser innocence. Thou hast known deceit and folly, With a musing melancholy Inly armed, go, Maiden! go. Mother sage of self-dominion, Mute the sky-lark and forlorn, While she moults the firstling plumes, Soon with renovated wing Shall she dare a loftier flight, LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT-ROOM. NOR cold, nor stern, my soul! yet I detest These feel not Music's genuine power, nor deign To melt at Nature's passion-warbled plaint; But when the long-breathed singer's uptrilled strain Bursts in a squall-they gape for wonderment. Hark! the deep buzz of vanity and hate! Scornful, yet envious, with self-torturing sneer My lady eyes some maid of humbler state, While the pert captain, or the primmer priest, Prattles accordant scandal in her ear. O give me, from this heartless scene released, Or lies the purple evening on the bay Unheard, unseen, behind the alder-trees, Breathes in his flute sad airs, so wild and slow, That his own cheek is wet with quiet tears. But O, dear Anne! when midnight wind careers, And the gust pelting on the out-house shed Makes the cock shrilly on the rain storm crow, To hear thee sing some ballad full of woe, Ballad of ship-wrecked sailor floating dead, Whom his own true-love buried in the sands! Thee, gentle woman, for thy voice re-measures Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures The things of Nature utter; birds or trees Or moan of ocean-gale in weedy caves, Or where the stiff grass mid the heath-plant waves, Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze. THE KEEPSAKE. THE tedded hay, the first fruits of the soil, 'One of the names (and meriting to be the only one) of the Myosotis Scorpioides Palustris, a flower from six to twelve inches high, with blue blossom and bright yellow eye. It has the same name over the whole Empire of Germany (Vergissmein nicht) and, I believe, in Denmark and Sweden. With delicate fingers on the snow-white silk Has worked, (the flowers which most she knew I loved,) And, more beloved than they, her auburn hair. In the cool morning twilight, early waked By her full bosom's joyous restlessness, Softly she rose, and lightly stole along, Down the slope coppice to the woodbine bower, In the smooth, scarcely moving river-pool. She would resign one half of that dear name, |