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There, healthy as a shepherd boy,
Which at no season fade,
A woman may be made.
A melancholy slave;
ON A TEAR.
OH! that the chemist's magic art
Could crystallize this sacred treasure ! Long should it glitter near my heart,
A secret source of pensive pleasure. The little brilliant, ere it fell,
Its lustre caught from Chloe's eye; Then, trembling, left its coral cell
The spring of sensibility!
Sweet drop of pure and pearly light!
In thee the rays of Virtue shine; More calmly clear, more mildly bright,
Than any gem that gilds the mine. Benign restorer of the soul !
Who ever fly'st to bring relief, When first we feel the rude control
Of Love or Pity, Joy or Grief.
The sage's and the poet's theme,
In every clime, in every age;
In Reason's philosophic page.
That very law which moulds a tear,
And bids it trickle from its source, That law preserves the earth a sphere, And guides the planets in their course.
Go—you may call it madness, folly,
You shall not chase my gloom away; There's such a charm in melancholy,
would not, if I could, be gay. O, if you knew the pensive pleasure
That fills my bosom when I sigh, You would not rob me of a treasure Monarchs are too poor to buy.
TIMELY blossom, Infant fair,
Flitting to each bloomy spray;
Ever-busy Time prepares ;
STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BETWEEN
FLORENCE AND PISA.
O, TALK not to me of a name great in story;
In the downhill of life when I find I'm declining,
May my fate no less fortunate be,
And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea;
While I carol away idle sorrow;
Look forward with hope to To-morrow.
With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade, too,
As the sunshine or rain may prevail;
With a barn for the use of the flail :
And a purse when a man wants to borrow,
Or what honours may wait him To-morrow.
From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely
Secured, by a neighbouring hill;
By the sound of a murmuring rill:
With a heart free from sickness and sorrow,
And let them spread the table To-morrow.
Which I've worn for threescore years and ten, On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hovering,
Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again;
And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow,
MINE be a cot beside the hill;
A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear; A willowy brook, that turns a mill,
With many a fall shall linger near. The swallow, oft beneath my thatch,
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
And share my meal, a welcome guest. Around my ivied porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel shall sing
In russet gown and apron blue.
Where first our marriage-vows were given,
THE POPLAR FIELD.
THE poplars are fell’d, farewell to the shade,