AWAKE, my harp, some joyful measure!
No longer breathe a pensive strain ;
Be, like my soul, attuned to pleasure,
And never mourn again.
Awake, my harp, some joyful measure!
"Twas Love that taught thy strings to move; And Love now fills my soul with pleasure ;Then hymn the charms of Love!
O Love! some call thy musings folly,
Some call thee cruel, base, and blind;
But thou, methinks, art pure and holy,
Exalted,—raised,—refined.
And some there are who can dissemble
The raptures of thy ardent flame;
And some poor maidens start and tremble,
If they but hear thy name.
Yet, though thy charms were all illusion,
Such dear deceits I still would seek!
Thy mantling blush, thy soft confusion,
Thy looks that more than speak.
Thou know'st, O Love! how I have blest thee,
How oft for thee my heart hath beat;
How oft in sorrow I've carest thee,
And thought my sorrow sweet.
O Love! some call thy musings folly;
Some call thee cruel, base, and blind; But thou, methinks, art pure and holy, Exalted, raised, refined!
THE BEECH TREE'S PETITION.
O LEAVE this barren spot to me!
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
Though bush or floweret never grow
My dark, unwarming shade below;
Nor summer bud perfume the dew
Of rosy blush, or yellow hue;
Nor fruits of Autumn, blossom-born,
My green and glossy leaves adorn;
Nor murmuring tribes from me derive
The' ambrosial amber of the hive;
Yet leave this barren spot to me:
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
Thrice twenty summers have I seen
The sky grow bright, the forest green;
And many a wintry wind have stood
In bloomless, fruitless solitude,
Since childhood in my pleasant bower
First spent its sweet and sportive hour,
Since youthful lovers in my shade
Their vows of truth and rapture made;
And on my trunk's surviving frame,
Carved many a long forgotten name.
Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound,
First breathed upon this sacred ground;
By all that Love had whispered here,
Or Beauty heard with ravished ear;
As Love's own altar honour me,
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
A SHADOW on my spirit fell,
When my hushed footstep from thee passed;
And sad to me thy mild farewell,
To me, who feared it was thy last; And when I saw thee next, a veil Was drawn upon thy features pale.
They strewed thee in thy narrow bed
With roses from thy own loved bowers:
In melting anguish memory fled
Back to thy valued rural hours;
And saw thee gentle gliding round,
Where all to thee was Eden ground.
The God, whose presence met thee there,
Was with thee in thy slow decays;
He answered to thy dying prayer,
Whose life had been a hymn of praise:
Thy God was nigh-thy Shepherd-God,
With comfort of his staff and rod.
I lay thee where the loved are laid :
Rest till their change and thine shall come;
Still voices whisper through the shade;
A light is glimmering round the tomb;
The temple rends! the sleep is ended—
The dead are gone, the pure ascended!
WHILE others grace thy natal day
With festive dance and song,
A pilgrim leaves his lonely way
To mingle in the throng:
When thou art near, a lingering pace,
A scanty lock, a wrinkled face,
No more to me belong;
For smiling beauty best can prove
How swift my silver pinions move.
I will not boast how oft and bright
This day I mean to bring,
Though many a downy plume last night
Thy bounty gave my wing.
Thy hand my rosy crown bestowed-
To thee my sparkling glass I owed,
Now take my offering;
Thou canst not reach so rich a prize
In Pleasure's gayest Paradise!
Midst sands that sparkle in my glass
No purer gem I find;
The rest may glitter, break, and pass,
But this remains behind;
Pride may the modest pearl disdain,
Or Love a brittle semblance feign,
But Pride and Love are blind;
They mock my power, yet I alone
Their fraudful counterfeits make known.
Receive my gift!—of nature's wealth
Thy mind has ample store;
Of Pleasure, Honour, Hope, and Health,
I cannot give thee more.
The gem which none of these can buy
Will youth's ethereal light supply,
When thou like me art hoar;
I give what Fortune cannot lend—
Time, only Time reveals a friend!
European Magazine.
For thee, love, for thee love,
I'll brave fate's sternest storm;
She cannot daunt or chill the hearts
Which love keeps bold and warm :
And when her clouds are blackest, nought
But thy sweet self I'll see,
Nor hear, amidst the tempest, aught
But thee, love, only thee.
For thee, love, for thee, love,
My fond heart would resign
The brightest cup that pleasure fills,
And fortune's wealthiest mine;
For pleasure's smiles are vanity,
And fortune's fade or flee;
There's purity and constancy
In thee, love, only thee.
For thee, love, for thee, love,
Life's lowly vale I'll tread,
And aid thy steps the journey through,
Nor quit thee till I'm dead;
And even then round her I love,
My shade shall hovering be,
And warble notes from heaven above
To thee, love, only thee.
New European Magazine.
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