While Spring shall pour his showers as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve! While Summer loves to sport While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves; Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air, Affrights thy shrinking train, So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science. smiling Peace, Thy gentlest influence own, ODE ON THE DEATH OF THOMSON. And oft suspend the dashing oar, And oft, as Ease and Health retire And mid the varied landscape weep. But thou, who own'st that earthly bed, Ah! what will every dirge avail; Or tears, which Love and Pity shed, That mourn beneath the gliding sail ? Yet lives there one whose heedless eye Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near? With him, sweet bard, may Fancy die, And Joy desert the blooming year. [The scene is supposed to lie on the But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen Thames, near Richmond.] IN yonder grave a Druid lies. Where slowly winds the stealing wave: The year's best sweets shall duteous rise To deck its poet's sylvan grave. In yon deep bed of whispering reeds His airy harp shall now be laid, That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds, May love through life the soothing shade. Then maids and youths shall linger here. And while its sounds at distance swell, Shall sadly seem in Pity's ear To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell. Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore When Thames in summer wreaths is drest, tide But on I went the dreary mile, I didna heed the storm and cauld, But when I trod the same way back, Tossed in a tree, thou'lt bear no harm; Flung on the moss, thou 'It lose no Like many a real friend on earth, Farewell, old friend, thy work is done; off. The woods are stark, and I must doff My old straw hat-but "bide a wee," Fair skies we've seen, yet we may see more. But will they worship woman's worth Oh! 'tis a saddening thing to be In the sand Time puts in his glass Few golden atoms run. My locks are thin and dry; I know full well I have nought of That maketh woman "divine;" The wocer's praise and doting gaze Farewell, till drooping bluebells blow, And violets stud the warm hedgerow; Where'er I go all eyes will shun Have never yet been mine. Farewell, till daisies deck the plain-The loveless mien of the ugly one. Farewell, till spring days come again— My old straw hat. SONG OF THE UGLY MAIDEN. On! the world gives little of love or light, Though my spirit pants for much; I hear men sing o'er the flowing cup Would that I had passed away Ere I knew that I was born; Not only shun, but mock. O Ugliness! thy desolate pain Had served to set the stamp on Cain! |