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And beneath the vernal skies
Happy thrice, and thrice again,
Whence heart-winning glances fly,
And that cheek of health, o'erspread
With soft-blended white and red,
And the witching smiles which break
Gentle from a gentle kind,
These endowments, heavenly dower!
TO MISS GEORGIANA CARTERET.
Little charm of placid mien,
Voice, and speech, and action, rising,
Is the silken web so thin
As the texture of her skin?
As her veins exposed to view?
Twinkle brighter than her eye?
Has the morning lark a throat
Sounding sweeter than her note?
Who e'er knew the like before thee?
They who knew the nymph that bore thee.
From thy harmless cares and joys,
Has thy sister heard my strain :
Smooth as gently breathing gales
O'er the ocean and the vales,
While the vessel calmly glides
O'er the level glassy tides,
While the summer flowers are springing,
THE DYING LOVER.
Dear Love, let me this evening die,
Oh smile not to prevent it;
Dead with my rivals let me lie,
Or we shall both repent it.
Frown quickly then, and break my heart,
May, though my life was full of smart,
Some, striving knowledge to refine,
And some, who friendship seal in wine,
And some are wrecked on the Indian coast,
Some are in smoke of battle lost,
Whom drums, not lutes, delighted.
Alas! how poorly these depart,
Their graves still unattended! Who dies not of a broken heart Is not of Death commended. His memory is only sweet,
All praise and pity moving, Who kindly at his mistress' feet Does die with over-loving.
And now thou frown'st, and now I die,
If priests are grieved I have a grave,
The poets my estate shall have,
To teach them the Art of Loving.
And now let lovers ring their bells
My grave with flowers let lovers strow,
Such flowers how much will florists prize,
All light to darkness turning; While every quire shall sadly sing, And nature's self wear mourning, Yet we hereafter may be found,
By destiny's right placing,
Making, like flowers, love underground,
Sir William Davenant.
THE SAILOR'S RETURN.
And are ye sure the news is true?
Ye jades, lay by your wheel;
Is this the time to spin a thread,
When Colin's at the door?
Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay,
And see him come ashore.
For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a';
There's little pleasure in the house,
When our gudeman's awa'.