The lips may beguile
With a dimple or smile,
But the test of affection 's a Tear.
Too oft is a smile
But the hypocrite's wile, To mark detestation or fear; Give me the soft sigh,
Whilst the soul-telling eye
Is dimm'd for a time with a Tear.
Mild Charity's glow,
To us mortals below,
Shows the soul from barbarity clear;
Compassion will melt
Where this virtue is felt,
And its dew is diffused in a Tear.
The man doom'd to sail
With the blast of the gale,
Through billows Atlantic to steer,
As he bends o'er the wave,
Which may soon be his grave,
The green sparkles bright with a Tear.
The soldier braves death
For a fanciful wreath,
In glory's romantic career;
But he raises the foe,
When in battle laid low,
And bathes every wound with a Tear.
If with high-bounding pride
He return to his bride, Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear, All his toils are repaid,
When, embracing the maid,
From her eyelid he kisses the Tear.
Sweet scene of my youth,
Seat of friendship and truth,
Where love chased each fast-fleeting year
Loath to leave thee, I mourn'd,
For a last look I turn'd,
But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear.
Though my vows I can pour
To my Mary no more—
My Mary to Love once so dear-
In the shade of her bower,
I remember the hour,
She rewarded those vows with a Tear.
By another possess'd,
May she live ever bless'd!
Her name still my heart must revere:
With a sigh I resign
What I once thought was mine,
And forgive her deceit with a Tear.
Ye friends of my heart,
Ere from you I depart,
This hope to my breast is most near :
If again we shall meet
In this rural retreat,
May we meet, as we part, with a Tear!
When my soul wings her flight
To the regions of night,
And my corse shall recline on its bier,
As ye pass by the tomb
Where my ashes consume,
Oh! moisten their dust with a Tear.
May no marble bestow
The splendour of woe,
Which the children of Vanity rear!
No fiction of fame
Shall blazon my name;
All I ask, all I wish, is a Tear.
DELIVERED PREVIOUS TO THE PERFORMANCE OF THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE' AT A PRIVATE THEATRE.
Since the refinement of this polish'd age
Has swept immoral raillery from the stage;
Since taste has now expung'd licentious wit,
Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ;
Siuce now to please with purer scenes we seck.
Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek;
Oh! let the modest Muse some pity claim,
And meet indulgence, though she find not fame!
Still, not for her alone we wish respect,
Others appear more conscious of defect;
To-night no veteran Roscii you behold,
In all the arts of scenic action old;
No Cooke, no Kemble, can salute you here,
No Siddons draw the sympathetic tear;
To-night you throng to witness the debut
Of embryo actors, to the drama new.
Here, then, our almost unfledged wings we try,
Clip not our pinions ere the birds can fly :
Failing in this our first attempt to soar,
Drooping, alas! we fall to rise no more.
Not one poor trembler only fear betrays,
Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet your praise;
But all our dramatis persona wait,
In fond suspense, this crisis of their fate.
No venal views our progress can retard,
Your generous plaudits are our sole reward;
For these each hero all his power displays,
Each timid heroine shrinks before your gaze.
Surely the last will some protection find
None to the softer sex can prove unkind:
Whilst youth and beauty form the female shield,
The sternest censor to the fair must yield.
Yet, should our feeble efforts nought avail;
Should, after all, our best endeavours fail;
Still let some mercy in your bosoms live,
And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive.
STANZAS TO A LADY,
WITH THE POEMS OF CAMOENS,
This votive pledge of fond esteem,
Perhaps, dear girl! from me thou❜lt prize;
It sings of Love's enchanting dream-
A theme we never can despise.
Who blames it but the envious fool,
The old and disappointed maid-
Or pupil of the prudish school,
In single sorrow doom'd to fade?
Then read, dear girl!—with feeling read
For thou wilt ne'er be one of those;
To thee, in vain, I shall not plead
In pity for the Poet's woes.
He was, in sooth, a genuine bard;
His was no faint fictitious flame:
Like his, may love be thy reward;
But not thy hapless fate the same!
Oh did those eyes, instead of fire,
With bright, but mild, affection shine;
Though they might kindle less desire,
Love more than mortal would be thine,
For thou art form'd so heavenly fair,
Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam,
We must admire, but still despair;
That fatal glance forbids esteem.
When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth,
So much perfection in thee shone,
She fear'd that, too divine for earth,
The skies might claim thee for their own
Therefore, to guard her dearest work,
Lest augels might dispute the prize,
She bade a secret lightning lurk
Within those ouce-celestial eyes.
These might the boldest sylph appal,
When gleaming with meridian blaze ; Thy beauty must enrapture all,
But who can dare thine ardent gaze?
'Tis said that Berenice's hair
In stars adorns the vault of heaven;
But they would ne'er permit thee there,
Thou wouldst so far outshine the seven.
For, did those eyes as planets roll,
Thy sister lights would scarce appear;
Even suns, which systems now control,
Would twinkle dimly through their sphere.
Woman! experience might have told me
That all must love thee who behold thee;
Surely experience might have taught
Thy firmest promises are nought;
But, placed in all thy charms before me,
All I forget but to adore thee.
Oh, Memory! thou choicest blessing,
When join'd with hope, when still possessing;
But how much cursed by every lover
When hope is fled, and passion's over!
Woman! that fair and fond deceiver,
How prompt are striplings to believe her!
How throbs the pulse when first we view
The eye that rolls in glossy blue;
Or sparkles black, or mildly throws
A beam from under hazel brows!
How quick we credit every oath,
And hear her plight the willing troth!
Fondly we hope 'twill last for aye,
When, lo! she changes in a day.
This record will for ever stand
* The last line is almost a literal translation from a Spanish proverb.
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