Poems | Page 7

And Friendship oft shall raise the veil
Time shall have drawn o'er
pleasures past,
And Fancy shall repeat the tale
Of happy hours, too
sweet to last!
But when she mourns o'er Mira's bier,
And when the fond illusion
ends,
Oh! then shall fall the genuine tear
That drops for dear
departed friends!
[Footnote A: Mr. Hodges, in his Travels in India, page 28, mentions,
that between Banglepoor and Mobgheir, it is the custom of the women
of the family to attend the tombs of their friends after sun-set; and
observes, "it is both affecting and curious to see them proceeding in
groups, carrying lamps in their hands, which they place at the head of
the tomb."]
LINES
TO MISS C.
On her leaving the Country.
Since Friendship soon must bid a fond adieu,
And, parting, wish your
charms she never knew,
Dear Laura hear one genuine thought
express'd,
Warm from the heart, and to the heart address'd:--
Much
do I wish you all your soul holds dear,
To sooth and sweeten ev'ry
trouble here;
But heav'n has yielded such an ample store,
You
cannot ask, nor can I wish you, more;
Bless'd with a sister's love,
whose gentle mind,
Still pure tho' polish'd, virtuous and refin'd,

Will aid your tend'rer years and innocence
Beneath the shelter of her
riper sense.
Charm'd with the bright example may you move,
And,
loving, richly copy what you love.
Adieu! and blame not if an artless
pray'r
Should, self-directed, ask one moment's care:--
When years
and absence shall their shade extend,
Reflect who sighs adieu, and

call him--friend.
LINES
TO A ROBIN.
Written during a severe Winter.
Why, trembling, silent, wand'rer! why,
From me and Pity do you fly?

Your little heart against your plumes
Beats hard--ah! dreary are
these glooms!
Famine has chok'd the note of joy
That charm'd the
roving shepherd-boy.
Why, wand'rer, do you look so shy?
And why,
when I approach you, fly?
The crumbs which at your feet I strew

Are only meant to nourish you;
They are not thrown with base decoy,

To rob you of one hour of joy.
Come, follow to my silent mill,

That stands beneath yon snow-clad hill;
There will I house your
trembling form,
There shall your shiv'ring breast be warm:
And,
when your little heart grows strong,
I'll ask you for your simple song;

And, when you will not tarry more,
Open shall be my wicket-door;

And freely, when you chirp "adieu,"
I'll wish you well, sweet
warbler! too;
I'll wish you many a summer-hour
On top of tree, or
abbey-tow'r.
When Spring her wasted form retrieves,
And gives
your little roof its leaves,
May you (a happy lover) find
A kindred
partner to your mind:
And when, amid the tangled spray,
The sun
shall shoot a parting ray,
May all within your mossy nest
Be safe,
be merry, and be blest.
LINES TO DELIA,
ON HER WEARING A MUSLIN VEIL.
Say, Delia, why, in muslin shade,
Ah! say, dost thou conceal those
eyes?
Such little stars were never made,
I'm sure, to shine thro'
misty skies.
Say, are they wrapt in so much shade,
That they may more successful

rise,
Starting from such soft ambuscade,
To catch and kill us by
surprise?
Or, of their various pow'rs afraid,
Is it in mercy to our sighs,
Lest
love, o'er many a heart betray'd,
Should sob "a faithful vot'ry dies"?
Then, oh! remove the envious shade;
Let others wear, who want,
disguise:
We all had sooner die, sweet maid,
To see, than live
without, those eyes.
VERSES
TO THE TOMB OF A FRIEND.
Dearer to me, thou pile of dust!
Tho' with the wild flow'r simply
crown'd,
Than the vast dome or beauteous bust,
By genius form'd,
by wit renown'd.
Wave, thou wild flow'r! for ever wave,
O'er my lov'd relic of delight;

My tears shall bathe her green-rob'd grave
More than the dews of
heav'n by night.
Methinks my Delia bids me go,
Says, "Florio, dry that fruitless tear!

Feed not a wild flow'r with thy woe,
Thy long-lov'd Delia is not
here.
"No drop of feeling from her eye
Now starts to hear thy sorrows
speak;
And, did thy bosom know one joy,
No smile would bloom
upon her cheek.
"Pale, wan, and torpid, droops that cheek,
Whereon thy lip impress'd
its red;
Those eyes, which Florio taught to speak,
Unnotic'd close
amid the dead!"
True, true, too idly mourns this heart;
Why, Mem'ry, dost thou paint
the past?
Why say you saw my Delia part,
Still press'd, still lov'd

her, to the last?
Then, thou wild flow'r, for ever wave!
To thee this parting tear is
given;
The sigh I offer at her grave
Shall reach my sainted love in
heaven!
TIME AND THE LOVER.
Oh, Time! thy merits who can know?
Thy real nature who discover?

The absent lover calls thee slow,--
"Too rapid," says the happy
lover.
With bloom thy cheeks are now refin'd,
Now to thine eye the tear is
given;
At once too cruel and too kind,--
A little hell, a little heaven.
Go then, thou charming myst'ry, go!--
Yes, tho' thou often dost amuse
me,
Tho' many a joy to thee I owe,
At once I thank thee and abuse
thee.
A ROUNDELAY.
Wide thro' the azure blue and bright
Serenely floats the lamp of night;

The sleeping waves forget to move,
And silent is the