Oh! let me hope that thus for me, When life and love shall lose their bloom, Some milder joys may come, like thee, To light, if not to warm, the gloom! THE VASE. THERE was a vase of odour lay For many an hour on Beauty's shrine, And not an eye had ever seen The fragrant charm the vase conceal'd; Oh Love! how happy 'twould have been, If thou hadst ne'er that charm reveal'd! But Love, like every other boy, Would know the spell that lurks within; He wish'd to break the crystal toy, But Beauty murmur'd " 'twas a sin!" He swore, with many a tender plea, That neither Heaven nor earth forbad it; She told him, Virtue kept the key, And look'd as if she wish'd he had it! He stole the key when Virtue slept Oh dulcet air that vanish'd then! A breath so precious?-never, never! Go, maiden, weep-the tears of woe THE WREATH AND THE CHAIN. I BRING thee, love, a golden chain, The gold shall never wear a stain, The flow'rets long shall sweetly breathe! Come, tell me which the tie shall be To bind thy gentle heart to me. The Chain is of a splendid thread, Stolen from Minerva's yellow hair, To heal his lip when bees have stung it! Yes, yes, I read that ready eye, Which answers when the tongue is loath, Thou likest the form of either tie, And hold'st thy playful hands for both. Ah!-if there were not something wrong, The world would see them blended oft; The Chain would make the Wreath so strong! The Wreath would make the Chain so soft! Then might the gold, the flow'rets be Sweet fetters for my love and me! But, FANNY, so unblest they twine, That (Heaven alone can tell the reason) When mingled thus they cease to shine, And all their glow, their tints, are faded ! Sweet FANNY, what would Rapture do, When all her blooms had lost their grace? Might she not steal a rose or two From other Wreaths, to fill their place?— Oh! better to be always free, Than thus to bind my love to me. THE timid girl now hung her head, ΤΟ AND hast thou mark'd the pensive shade, Oh! 'tis not that I then forget The endearing charms that round me twineThere never throbb'd a bosom yet Could feel their witchery, like mine! When bashful on my bosom hid, And blushing to have felt so blest, Oh! these are minutes all thine own, For I have thought of former hours, Like me was loved, like me was blest! |