SONNET UPON A VINE. And screen'd from view, the wily Priest, With his audacious fraud, When o'er the revel or the feast, Each Neophyte was aw'd. Transported now to bleaker realms, And our inclement sky; Where pagan-craft no more o'erwhelms, Or slaughter'd victims lie. Long may thou flourish and increase, Thy fruit, our Lares guard, And crown'd by friendship, mirth and peace, Inspire his muse, his fancy warm, Tho' angry tempests blow; As old Falernian once could charm, Amidst Soracte's snow. The Sabine villa could restore, With Lydia's graceful form; While many a tale of ancient lore, Dispell'd the midnight storm. 133 134 SONNET UPON A VINE. Thus, long by Heav'n's all gracious power, Each worldly care forgot; May all beneath some vine-clad bower, Enjoy their chequer❜d lot. Enjoy that boon to few denied, From the poor swain or village bride, And musing o'er Pompeii's bier, Let her sad fate to view appear, And claim a pensive sigh. SONNET ADDRESSED TO A LADY. "Can those gay scenes, her restless thoughts employ ; Say, do they yield one transient gleam of joy? "With vacant eye she views the splendid dome, "And sighs, that happiness is not at home." "One thing must still be mainly dark, "The moving 'why' they do it; "And still as faintly can ye mark, "How bitterly they rue it." WHEN Fortune's car (as all have read,) Some hapless slave, in bondage led, To mark each fault was plac'd. Byron. Burns. 136 SONNET ADDRESSED TO A LADY. Who ev'ry failing tried to probe, And held the mirror nigh; Unveil'd the conqu'ror's spangled robe, And drew forth many a sigh. Thus when the brilliant scenes you view, Where pleasure can her roses strew, Or when fatigued with empty noise, You seek the rural shade; Will not remorse for slighted joys, In gentle tone upbraid? Or when at midnight's silent hour, On downy pillows tost; Will not fond Mem'ry's magic power, Vain Flatt'ry's sycophantic train, The banquet, or the song; No more they prove a balm for pain, Or "Auld Lang Syne" prolong. SONNET ADDRESSED TO A LADY. 137 Still former days of youthful glee, Must on the bosom dwell; With sylph-like air, when frank and free, You sought the flow'ry dell. Nor can those manners blythe and gay, Or Fashion's loudest din; With colours bright as op'ning day, Destroy the worm within. "The still, small voice," will ever rise, (As sacred lore has taught ;) In tropic and in polar skies, By wealth or fame unbought. Alike in Senates, as in Courts, In lofty halls, in rustic sports; And when your brief career is o'er, As close, we know it must; When "summer friends" desert your door, And all is turn'd to dust. |