« VorigeDoorgaan »
WHILST in those eyes of mildest light,
Say, my sweet Susan dost thou love (For much of grief thou sure hast known) To mark on care's dejected brow,
The trace of sorrows like thy own?
Or does thy heart, when a hard world
To meet the kind looks of a friend?
Perhaps thou think'st a stricken heart,
Yes, my sweet love-by hopes most dear,
When thought sat sadly on thy brow,
And press thy hand, but never speak.
And if thy friends should prove unkind,
Nor be the pleasing hope in vain,
That scenes like these of joy pourtrays;
Again the bright returning sun,
The op'ning landscape shall illume; And the lorn flower, that seems to droop, Shall all its wonted sweets resume.
Thy heart, when all its cares are past,
WHEN first those beauties met my sight,
Which shine so bright in you, And seem'd to promise me delight, I thought that promise true,
Kind were your looks, if e'er I gaz'd,
Warm'd by your smiles, those hopes were rais'd
While thus my thoughts deluded rov❜d,
Whate'er I priz'd, whate'er I lov'd,
But now you treat with cold disdain
Then, dear deceiver! this shall be
Though for no other I can prove,
Though all those hopes my heart forsake,.
Mary! General Evening Post.
On the Wall of a Summer-house.
YE wild waving woods, that now closing your shade,
Ye flocks, that hang white on the side of
Sweet inspirers of thought! and thou sweetest, thou dove, Whose silver plumes shine thro' the boughs of the tree, Escap'd from the cage and away from thy love,
AH, silent and sad, a companion to me!..
Ah why, as I gaze on the landscape around,
Why suddenly starts the fond tear to my eye? Tho' smiling each object, and cheerful each sound, Why steals from my bosom the sorrowing sigh?
Enchant the fair scenes, 'till enraptur❜d I find
Till the sun-shine that gilds you shall brighten my mind, And my fancy forget that my heart has a woe!.
So free may you flourish, fair scenes as ye rise,
So when the glad seasons their blessings shall yield,
And so, when the ev'ning's mild glories decline,
Ere yet you are hid by the envious night.
And whilst her fair form glitters bright in the flood, And sheds on its bosom a tremulous ray,
Tips the top of the hill, gilds the gloom of the wood, And softens each beauty that glar'd in the day.