POOR Maid! that wander'st on the desert shore
Thy scatter'd tresses negligently thrown
Over thy snow-white bosom, and alone
Dost watch the sea's mad surge and angry roar;
Alas! some bitter sorrow thou dost own;
Thy straining eyes so piteously pursue
Th' horizon's utmost line, and at the view
Of each new-rising sail, with mutter'd moan,
So wildly thou dost start-What pang severe
Thus rends thy struggling bosom? dost thou mourn
A parent's loss, a sister's early bier ?
No! from the pitiless waves, poor Maid forlorn, Thou dost demand unheard thy true-love dear, Gone many a ling'ring month, but never to return.
I GRIEVE to think that lovely babe is gone,
Who like a sweet bud to the nipping air
Did shew her little charms, but now withdrawn
Is plac'd in kinder climes and scenes more fair
I grieve to think that lovely babe is dead;
But, when I call to mind Life's bitter woes,
I say-Ah me! from sorrow she is fled-
And cease to weep, and bless that calm repose,
Where slumb'ring sweetly she will ne'er endure
The numerous pangs, that riper age assail, Sad loss of friends, and blighted love past cure, Keen disappointment, and despondence pale; Yes thou art gone, poor babe; nor wilt thou bear Heart-gnawing grief, or comfortless despair.
SWEET bird, that pour'st a melancholy strain,
Weeping perhaps thy joyous season gone,
When day and all the merry months are flown,
And round thee night and gloomy winter reign;
Ah! wert thou conscious of my bitter pain,
And tender sorrows, not unlike thy own,
Thou'dst seek this wretched bosom, as alone
I stray disconsolate, and there complain.
Perhaps unequal sorrow bids us weep;
Again thy little love may bless thy sight,
While mine is wrapt in everlasting sleep;
But dear remembrance of my past delight,
And the sad dreary hours, that slowly creep,
To share thy plaintive converse now invite.
SWEET gale, that evermore with fond delight
Dost wanton 'mid the leaves of myrtle bow'rs,
And laurels evergreen, from beauteous flow'rs
Stealing their sweetest odours in thy flight!
Ah! if sad pity for a lover's plight
Is wont to move thee, cease thy wand'ring way,
And hie thee, where Amanda loves to stray,
By yon clear stream, whose flow'ry banks invite.
And in thy bosom bear these gentle sighs,
And soft complainings, born of inward pine,
To where my tender torments first did rise;
Then from the roses of her lip divine
Sweet kisses steal, whose balmy extasies
May soothe love's bitter pangs, tho' fierce as mine.
TO ROBERT ANDERSON, M. D.
On receiving from him a Present of various Poetical Works.
WHAT light ethereal plays around my bower,
To chase the sadness of the studious hour!
What strains of various melody succeed,
The lyre, the shepherd's song*, the Doric reed!
While oft, at pauses, melting on my ear,
In liquid notes, a female voice I hear +!
'Tis He, the lover of the tuneful art,
With head unclouded, and with glowing heart,
"Tis He, whose cares departed genius guard,
Whose ardent friendship soothes the living bard;
Who boasts, in solid structure, to combine
The scatter'd gems that round Parnassus shine.
From healthful Scotia, brac'd by winnowing winds,
Land of heroic and of tuneful minds,
*Some of these Poems, by Mr. Macneill and Mr. Nicol, are in the Scottish dialect.
+ Poems by Miss Bannerman.
Edition of the Works of the British Poets, with Prefaces, biographical and critical.
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