Poems | Page 6

dimpling cheeks impart
Their knowledge of some
pleasure nigh:--
'Tis good for thee!
Thou seem'st to say "I've sunshine too;
'Tis beaming in a spotless
breast;
No shade of guilt obstructs the view,
And there are many
not so blest,
Who day's blush see.
"Dear are those eyes, by mine ne'er seen,
Which I protect from many
a tear;
Kind stranger! 'tis on yonder green
A mother's aged form I
rear:
Oh! buy of me!"
LINES
UPON SEEING ----
At one of the annual Banquets given in Guildhall.
Gorgeous and splendid was the sight;
From myriad lamps a fairy light

Enshrin'd in wreaths the Gothic wall,
And heav'nly music fill'd the
hall!
But there was one--(alas! that I
Had ever seen)--the melody
Her

voice surpassed, and brighter far
Her eyes than ev'ry mimic star!
I gaz'd, until, oh! thought divine!
I fancied she I saw was mine;
But
soon the beauteous vision flew--
The stranger-form I lov'd withdrew.
Yet still she lives within my breast,
There mem'ry has her form
imprest:--
Thus, when some minstrel's strain is done,
Sounds seem
to breathe, for ever gone!
YARRIMORE.
[These Lines were written for a Lady who set them to Music.]
My poor heart flutters like the sea
Now heaving on the sandy shore;

It seems to tell me you shall be
Never again near Yarrimore.
Far, far beyond the waves, I bend
Mine eyes, if I can land explore;

But o'er the waves I find no end,--
Yet there they say's my Yarrimore.
The hut he built is standing still,
Deck'd with the shells he cull'd from
shore;
Our bow'r is waving on the hill,
But where, alas! is
Yarrimore?
Within that bow'r I'll sit and sigh,
From dawn of day till day is o'er;

And, as the wild winds o'er me fly,
I'll call on gentle Yarrimore!
LINES TO MISS ----,
Upon her appearing at a Ball in an elegant Plaid Dress,
AND HAVING REPEATEDLY BEFORE EXPRESSED HER
PREFERENCE
OF THE SCOTISH NATION.
Is it that plaided thus you wish to prove
How northern is the region of
your love?
Ah, Mary! tho', within that far-fam'd clime,
Deeds have
been done that mock the wreck of Time;
Tho' there the brave have

bled, or, o'er the wave,
On distant shores have found a glorious grave;

Tho' there the mountain-nymph of song has pour'd
Her loftiest
strain, to bless the hero's sword;
Still, lovely wand'rer, with a jealous
eye,
O'er Scotia's hills we see thy fancy fly;
For here the warrior oft
has rais'd his sword,
The patriot too his noble blood has pour'd;

Here too the sweet Recorder of the brave
Has sat and sung upon her
hero's grave.
Then cease, romantic maid! ah, cease to rove;
The
very wood-dove loves its native grove:
Oh! then, let Nature bid thy
guileless heart
Here shed its love, and all its warmth impart;
And on
the land that gave thee birth bestow
The fondness which it claims,
and treasures too.
A SONG.
TO THE MOON.
Thou, lamp! the gods benignly gave,
To light a lover on his way;

Thou, Moon! along the silv'ry wave,
Ah! safe this flutt'ring heart
convey:--
Sweet is thy light, and sweet thy shade,
The guide_ and _guardian of
our bliss,
A lover's panting lips to lead,
Or veil him in the ravish'd
kiss.
Her white robe floats upon the air;
My Lyra hears the dashing oar:

Ye floods, oh! speed me to my fair!
My soul is with her long before.
Oh! lightly haste, thy lover view,
And ev'ry anxious fear resign;
Ye
tow'rs, no longer fear'd, adieu!
The treasure which ye held is mine!
LINES
Upon the Death of the Lady of Lieutenant-Colonel Adams,
WHO LATELY DIED OF A DECLINE IN THE EAST INDIES.

When Time a mellowing tint has thrown
O'er many a scene to
mem'ry dear.
It scatters round a charm, unknown
When first th'
impression rested there.
But, oh! should distance intervene,
Should Ocean's wave, should
changeful clime.
Divide--how sweeter far the scene!
How richer
ev'ry tint of time!
E'en thus with those (a treasur'd few)
Who gladden'd life with many a
smile,
Tho' long has pass'd the sad adieu,
In thought we love to
dwell awhile.
Then with keen eye, and beating heart,
The anxious mind still seeks
relief
From those who can the tale impart,
How pass their day, in
joy or grief.
If haply health and fortune bless,
We feel as if on us they shone;
If
sickness and if sorrow press,
Then feeling makes their woes our own.
'Twas thus of Mira oft I thought,
Oft dwelt upon the scenes she grac'd:

Her form in beauty's mould was wrought,
Her mind the seat of
sense and taste.
Long, hov'ring o'er her fleeting breath,
Love kept his watch in silent
gloom;
He saw her meekly yield to Death,
And knelt a mourner at
her tomb.
When the night-breeze shall softly blow,
When the bright moon upon
the flood
Shall spread her beams (a silv'ry show),
And dark be
many a waving wood,--
When, dimly[A] seen, in robes of white,
A mournful train along the
grove
Shall bear the lamp of sacred light,
To deck the turf of those
they love,--
Then shall the wood-dove quit its bow'r,
And seek the spot were she

is laid;
Its wild and mournful notes shall pour
A requiem to her
hallow'd shade.