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But if, led on by Heaven's decree to explore
The depths and shoals of fortune, once again
I trust the faithless main, Torn from thy desert caves and solemn roar; Give me at length, from storms secure, and woes
Of latest age, to lose the silent hours,
And in thy awful bowers
TO THE POPPY.
Not for the promise of the labour'd field,
I bend at Ceres’ shrine;
Alas! a melancholy worship's mine!
Thou brilliant weed
That dost so far exceed
(Thou comforter of woe),
A various wreath I wove
To deck ungrateful Love;
Unless perchance the attributes of grief,
By thee the wretched die!
Which bids the spirit from its bondage fly,
HON. MRS. O'NEIL.
TO THE WILLOW.
Queen of flowers, how bright her hue,
Flings her refreshing odours to the night!
Pleasure's joyous votaries, haste,
For me a wreath does Fate provide, A chaplet meet to deck the bride Who weds Despair—the pallid cypress here Shall mix'd with dark funereal yew appear. Ah! never should thy fragrant breath, Sweet rose, be wasted in the cave of Death ; There must the nuptial feast be shortly spread, There the stern bridegroom waits—my bridal
guests the dead.
Then not for me, too lavish rose,
Spread thy robe of crimson hue; Far hence thy balmy sweets disclose,
Whilst I the weeping willow woo. When the wild winds impetuous blow, And lay the trembling forest low,
When the tall elm and stately oak
But not for yielding gentleness alone, And patient meekness, is the willow known; 'Tis her distinguish'd lot to prove The last resource of suffering love; Her graceful foliage decks the maid Who weeps too easy faith betray'd; Or crowns the drooping love-lorn swain, Whose haughty fair one scorns his pain ; Or marks the consecrated spot where sleep Love's victims, who at length have ceased to weep.
Then, still to cureless grief a friend,
FOUND IN A BOWER FACING THE
Sort cherub of the southern breeze,
Oh! thou whose voice I love to hear, When lingering through the rustling trees,
With lengthen's sighs it soothes mine ear; Oh! thou whose fond embrace to meet,
The young Spring all enamour'd flies, And robs thee of thy kisses sweet,
And on thee pours her laughing eyes; Thou at whose call the light fays start,
That silent in their hidden bower Lie penciling with tenderest art
The blossom thin and infant flower;
Oh! if aright I tune the reed
By simple lay and humble meed;
My willing hands this bower have made, Still let this bower thine influence feel,
And be its gloom thy favourite shade! For thee of all the cherub train
Alone my votive Muse would woo; Of all that skim along the main,
Or walk at dawn yon mountains blue; Of all that 'slumber in the grove,
Or playful urge the gossamer's flight, Or down the vale or streamlet move,
With whisper soft and pinion light.