Poems | Page 8

cedar grove;

Each breeze suspended seems to say--
"Now, Leline, for thy
Roundelay!"
My Delia's lids are clos'd in rest;
Ah! were her pillow but my breast!

Go, dreams! one gentle word impart,
In whispers place me by her
heart;
While near her door I'll fondly stray,
And sooth her with my
Roundelay.
But, ah! the Night draws in her shade,
And glimm'ring stars reluctant
fade:
Yet sleep, my love! nor may'st thou feel
The pangs which
griefs like mine reveal:
Adieu! for Morning's on his way,
And bids
me close my Roundelay.

FAREWELL LINES
TO
BRISTOL HOT WELLS.
Bristol! in vain thy rocks attempt the sky,
The wild woods waving on
their giddy brow;
And vainly, devious Avon! vainly sigh
Thy
waters, winding thro' the vales below;--
In vain, upon thy glassy bosom borne,
Th' expected vessel proudly
glides along,
While, 'mid thy echoes, at the break of morn
Is heard
the homeward ship-boy's happy song;--
For, ah! amid thy sweet romantic shade,
By Friendship led, fair
drooping Beauty moves;
Thy hallow'd cup of health affords no aid,

Nor charm thy birds, that chant their woodland loves.
Each morn I view her thro' thy wave-girt grove,
Her white robe
flutt'ring round her sinking form;
O'er the sweet ruin shine those eyes
of love,
As bright stars beaming thro' a midnight storm.
Here sorrowing Love seeks a sequester'd bow'r.
Calls on thy spring to
calm his troubled breast;
Bright Hope alights not on his pensive hour,

Nor can thy favour'd fountains yield him rest.
Despair across his joys now intervenes,
And sternly bids the little
cherub fly;
While his eyes close amid thy beauteous scenes.
His last
sighs bless the form that bids him die.
Farewell, then, Bristol! thou canst yield no joy,
Thy woods look
darken'd with funereal gloom,
Sickness and Sorrow on thy green
banks sigh,
And all thy form is but a beauteous tomb.
Ah! may each future suff'rer, hov'ring near,
Rais'd by thy genial wave,
delighted view
Returning joy and health, supremely dear,
Long lost

to him who sadly sighs adieu!
A SONG.
These shades were made for Love alone,--
Here only smiles and
kisses sweet
Shall play around his flow'ry throne,
And doves shall
sentinel the seat.
Come, Delia! 'tis a genial day;
It bids us to his bow'r repair:--
"But
what will little Cupid say?"--
"Say! sweet?--why, give a welcome
there."
There not a tell-tale beam shall peep
Upon thy beauty's rich display,--

There not a breeze shall dare to sweep
The leaves, to whisper what
we say.
LINES
ON LADY W---- APPEARING AT THE EXHIBITION.
When lovely Delphine sought the crowded scene,
The painter's
mimic pow'r no longer mov'd;
All turn'd to gaze upon her beauteous
mien,
None envied her, for, as they look'd, they lov'd.
Amid the proud display of forms so fair,
Of each fine tint the pencil
can impart,
Nature with rapture seem'd to lead her there,
To prove
how she could triumph over Art.
LINES
WRITTEN AT BRIGHTON.
From Mirth's bright circle, from the giddy throng,
How sweet it is to
steal away at eve,
To listen to the homeward fisher's song,
Whilst
dark the waters of the ocean heave;--
And on the sloping beach to bear the spray
Dash 'gainst some hoary

vessel's broken side;
Whilst, far illumin'd by the parting ray,
The
distant sail is faintly seen to glide.
Yes, 'tis Reflection's chosen hour; for then,
With pensive pleasure
mingling o'er the scene,
Th' erratic mind treads over life again,
And
gazes on the past with eye serene.
Those stormy passions which bedimm'd the soul,
That oft have bid
the joys it treasur'd fly,
Now, like th' unruffled waves of Ocean, roll

With gentle lapse--their only sound a sigh.
The galling wrong no longer knits the brow,
Ambition feels the folly
of her aim;
And Pity, from the heart expanding, now
Pants to
extend relief to ev'ry claim.
Thus, as I sit beside the murm'ring sea,
And o'er its darkness trace
light's parting streak,
I feel, O Nature! that serenity
Which vainly
poetry like mine can speak!
O'er the drear tract of Time, Remembrance views
Some dear, some
long-departed, pleasure gleam;--
So o'er the dark expanse the eye
pursues
Upon the wat'ry edge a transient beam.
The spot fraternal love has sacred made,
Solemn, yet sweet, like
groves in twilight gloom,
Mem'ry revisits, and beneath its shade

Faintly it sees each faded joy re-bloom.
By Fancy led, from Death's cold bed of stone,
Lovely, tho' wan, what
cherish'd form appears?
Oh! gentle Anna[A]! at thy name alone,

Genius, and Grace, and Virtue, smile in tears.
Half-wrapp'd in mist I see thy figure move,
O'er thy pale cheek
appears its wonted smile;
With lunar lustre beam those looks of love,

That once could life of ev'ry care beguile:
Faintly I hear thy angel-voice again;
There's music in the sweet and

dying sound;
Like Philomela's soft and echo'd strain,
It spreads a
soothing consolation round.
Adieu, bless'd shade!--Imagination roves
To distant regions, o'er th'
Atlantic wave;
Ah! not to genial skies, or fragrant groves,
To drop a
tear upon a kindred grave.
Hard was thy fate, Eliza[B]!--It was thine,
Tho' wit thy mind, tho'
beauty grac'd thy form,
Behind Affliction's weeping cloud to shine,

With star-like radiance, in a night of storm.
Fierce from the sun the fiery fever flew,
And bade the burning