-Cold showers from sullen skies descend,
And storms the lofty forest rend;
I fly the tempest-leave the plain,
But oh! from love I fly in vain.
In crowds would I dissolve my care,
The peace I seek, I find not there.
My absent fair one prompts my sighs,
And calls the tears from both my eyes;
My heart beats thick against my side,
More swiftly rolls the crimson tide;
I sweat, I pant, my ears resound,
And vision dimly swims around.
I pine, I languish in my pain,
And scarce does half the man remain.
I eye the maids, the soft and gay,
And wish to look my soul away;
With other objects to supply
The fair, the adverse fates deny;
Ill were my fair by them supplied,
Their form disgusts, but more their pride.
With haughty sneer they seem to say,
Away, dull impudence! away!
the second volume, bad as they are, they were carefully assigned to the Honourable Andrew Erskine.
You look, you sigh, and weep in vain;
Go; woo some trull upon the plain.
With conscious shame I blush, I glow;
My Delia would not use me so-
A packet!-'tis my Delia's hand-
What would my lovely maid command ?'
Am I my fair-one's tender care?
Love me! What would you love, my dear?
No fair domains of mine are spread,
No lofty villa rears its head;
Love me! what would you love, my dear?
A gen'rous heart-a mind sincere;
A soul that fortune's frowns defies,
Nor flatters fools I must despise,
Is all I boast, my charming fair!
Love me!--what would you love, my dear!
'Tis night and storms the forest shake;
Dark roll the billows on the lake;
The whirlwind sweeps; descends the rain,
The torrents echo to the plain :
Through desert paths forlorn I stray,
And not a moon to light my way;
No friendly star with golden eye
Looks from the cieling of the sky.
Here sounds an oak ;-there spreads a plane;
* See the Six Bards, of which I conceive that the Night-piece was the original form.
Where sprightly music swelled the sound,
While blooming beauty tript around.
They vanished, as they ne'er had been,
No lyre is heard, no maid is seen,
No more the tuneful lyrist warms,
Death long since rifled beauty's charms;
No warrior's martial size is shown,
Time moulders down the very stone;
With every blast the fragments fall,
And winds are blust'ring in the hall.
Unhappy man! how short his date,
He springs to light, and sinks in fate;
Ev'n from the womb, the tomb is seen;
And sorrow fills the space between.
Bid paltry riches glut his eye,
Or empty glory raise him high;
Bid him in wrangling senates glow,
Or turn the batt'ry on the foe;
Yet, high or low, 'tis mankind's lot,
To live in grief, and die forgot.
Go, on the stone inscribe thy name,
And to the marble trust thy fame;
Bid half the mountain form thy tomb,
The wonder of the times to come;
The mound shall sink, the stone decay,
The sculptured figure wear away;
The bust that proudly speaks thy praise,
Some shepherd's future cot may raise;
While, smiling round, his infant son
Admires the figures on the stone.
A tomb its dreary honour shows!
Three stones exalt their heads of moss;
A bust, half-sunk in earth, appears,
The rude remains of former years;
Now peeping from the cloudy pole,
The moon has silvered o'er the whole.
Here, hoar tradition tells, repose
Two youths the dread of Albion's foes,
Of other times the grace and pride,
Who saved their country when they died;
But rolling time has lost their name,
So faithless is the breath of fame.
That light! it issues from the cot,
Be grief suspended,-care forgot:
There Nisa for her lover sighs,
And rolls on night her wishful eyes:
Why has my ling'ring rover stayed ?
I come, I come, my lovely maid,
To feast my eyes on all your charms,
And lose my sorrow in your arms.
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