"O! golden pledge of early love! "Thou promise of connubial bliss! Upbraid me not!" she cried-“ nor prove "How ill this soul sustains distress. "Whene'er thy glittering form I view, 66 My heart reproaches me, and cries"Could'st thou forget a spouse so true, "Who first conferr'd this hallow'd prize? "And ere soft April's dewy hand "Had twice bestrew'd with flow'rs his grave, "Submit thee to Seduction bland "The dupe of Vice, and Passion's slave! "Accurst by Heav'n, and Woman-kind, "O! golden pledge of happier times! 66 "Now dear, belov'd, dishonour'd pledge! 66 Might learn, from thee, that I am gone! "Here witness thou how MARY fell, "To expiate her foul disgrace; "And soon to her Betrayer tell "The tale that Time shall ne'er efface!" She clasp'd her hands-she rais'd her eyes, Wild was the ocean- -dark the skies!. No hope remain'd-no help was near! Down-down she plung'd-The dashing wave TO A FRIEND. HER image, who enslaves my mind, The Bard can ill express the Lover. Yet trust me he whose happier skill, For terms could ransack earth, air, ocean; Might shew, perhaps, more wit at will, But less of genuine emotion. Though Art the florid phrase deny, Yet Truth can never want expression, T. P. ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE, OXON. STANZAS, ON THE DEATH OF MISS H. E. HAY BY ADELINE. HAIL, awful dwelling of the silent dead! To Him that haunts this proud sepulchral dome, * Daughter of the Rev. George Hay Drummond. + The Chapel of Holyrood-house, now a pile of ruins, 3 O'er yon cold sod to Love and Nature dear, Oh! powers of Memory! it is your's alone, In vivid tints like Heaven's etherial bow, While Death's dim clouds in Faith's refulgent glow, Yet shrinking Nature, o'er yon sacred urn, When hopeless woe corrodes the aching breast, Oh! hear ye winds that sweep the vaulted sky, For there a Father guards his slumb'ring child. What tho' the storms that chill the changing year, Wave their dark pinions o'er the humid mound; Yet silver dew, pure as an angel's tear, Shall gem the wild weeds as they spring around. No blushing bands yon mould'ring arch entwine, Where the lone night-bird wakes his cries of woe; But there the wreaths of new fall'n snow shall shine, Pure as the innocence that sleeps below. Stranger approach, if e'er thy bosom knew Approach, for thou art hallowed by woe, Oh come, and gaze upon yon holy tomb; O'er the green turf that wraps the blissed clay, And chaunt at eve, beneath the lunar ray, The dirge of Sorrow o'er Eliza's grave, EDINBURGH, DEC. 4, 1802. |