THE HINDOO LOVER's ADDRESS,
Go, wanton breeze, to Cashmere's wavy groves,
Whose wild and tangled haunts my fair-one loves;
There gaily kiss each soft voluptuous flow'r,
Then hasten to my Abra's secret bow'r.
But oh! forget not as thou fly'st along
To steal the music of each warbler's song;
Then seek the shades where creeping violets spring,
And bear their treasures on thy downy wing;
Nor yet forget the bright and musky rose,
Whose modest face with vermeil tincture glows,
Flutt'ring around it tell thy tend'rest tale,
And win it from its mate the nightingale.*
And now thy silken pinions wide expand,
For Abra's mantling bow'r is near at hand.
Oh! when thou seest the maid my wishes seek,
With spicy whispers fan her damask cheek;
Pant in the ringlets of her ebon hair,
And court the laughing Loves that frolic there;
Breathe on those crimson lips whose honey'd store
The wretched Amurath must taste no more;
* See Dr. Darwin's Botanic Garden.
Sport on the liquid heaven of her eye,
And o'er her neck of marble softly sigh.
Then waft, oh waft the melody of song,
Let some sad cadence gently steal along.
Bid the lone night-bird all his griefs relate,
And tell her that he sings of Am'rath's fate;
Tell her, like me he mourns a faithless love,
Like me his thoughts to vanish'd pleasures rove;
Like me he shuns the morn's ethereal dies,
Like me to evening's tender scene he flies.
Go, lovely messenger, these words repeat,
Ere this deserted heart has ceas'd to beat.
"From these deep shades where slumb'ring silence reigns,
The victim of thy perfidy complains.
Where are thy vows, perfidious? whither fled?
Think not to veil from Heav'n thy guilty head.
Those broken vows are register'd on high,
Swift to the awful throne of God they fly,
There in the inky page of Fate they dwell,
There the dark catalogue of crimes they swell.
And hast thou then forgot that smiling hour,
When first this bosom own'd thy beauty's pow'r ?
When, as I gaz'd, a warm luxuriant glow
Of thy soft cheek would tinge th' inflamed snow?
How seem'd with love to move thy speaking eye,
How shiver'd through my frame thy smother'd sigh!
Hope fondly whisper'd that thy heart was mine,
And silence seem'd that rapture to refine.
When summer sun-beams danc'd along the vale,
And music trembled in each breathing gale,
Oft would I rove where pines their shadow threw,
Where tawny dates and spicy citrons grew;
There in the twilight of the curtain'd boughs
Where verd'rous Nature kept a deep repose,
There would burst forth my wild untutor'd lays,
And laughing echoes warbled Abra's praise.
Say, did the spring one od'rous bud disclose
That Am'rath fail'd to gather for his Rose?
Did not the anemony's resplendent hue-
Did not the violet with eyes of blue-
Did not the myrtle's sweet and blushing face
With studious care thy flowing tresses grace?
When winter chased the azure from the sky,
And loud rebellious whirlwinds hurried by,
Did not the costly aloe blaze around,
And velvet carpets paint the chequer'd ground?
Thy tissued caftan shone with vivid dies,
And di'monds strove to emulate thine eyes.
Oh hours of transport! never to return,
Oh lamp of bliss! that ne'er again shall burn,
This shipwreck'd heart has heard your parting knell,
Long have I bade your melting charms farewell.
Light of these eyes! art thou for ever gone?
Are all the dimpled smiles of pleasure flown?
Then let the tempest rave-red lightning glare,
Let loose the haggard demons of despair-
Fall, fall ye rains! to cool this scorching breast,
And soothe a panting soul by grief oppress'd."
But hark! I hear the battle's distant roar,
Let me then haste and think of thee no more.
See! Honour calls! her laurel'd wreath she shakes,
And all my soul from Passion's dream awakes.
False one, adieu! to distant shores I fly,
To snatch a wreath of Death, or Victory.
LAURA SOPHIA TEMPLE.
THE head that oft this Pillow press'd,
That aching head, is gone to rest;
It's little pleasures now no more,
And all its mighty sorrows o'er,
For ever in the worm's dark bed,
For ever sleeps that humble head!
My friend was young, the world was new; The world was false, my friend was true; Lowly his lot, his birth obscure,
His fortune hard, my friend was poor;
To wisdom he had no pretence,
A child of suffering, not of sense;
For Nature never did impart
A weaker head, a warmer heart.
His fervent soul, a soul of flame,
Consumed its frail terrestrial frame;
That fire from Heaven so fiercely burn'd,
That whence it came it soon return'd:
And yet, O Pillow! yet to me,
My gentle friend survives in thee,
In thee, the partner of his bed,
In thee, the widow of the dead!
On Helicon's inspiring brink,
Ere yet my friend had learn'd to think,
Once as he pass'd the careless day
Among the whispering reeds at play,
The Muse of Sorrow wander'd by ;
Her pensive beauty fix'd his eye;
With sweet astonishment he smiled;
The Gipsey saw-she stole the child;
And soft on her ambrosial breast
Sang the delighted babe to rest,
Convey'd him to her inmost grove,
And loved him with a mother's love.
Awakening from his rosy nap,
And gayly sporting on her lap,
His wanton fingers o'er her lyre
Twinkled like electric fire;
Quick and quicker as they flew,
Sweet and sweeter tones they drew :
Now a bolder hand he flings,
And dives among the deepest strings;
Then forth the music brake like thunder;
Back he started, wild with wonder!
The Muse of Sorrow wept for joy,
And clasp'd and kiss'd her chosen boy.
Ah! then no more his smiling hours
Were spent in childhood's Eden-bowers,
The fall from infant-innocence,
The fall to knowledge, drives us thence:
O knowledge! worthless at the price,
Bought with the loss of Paradise!
As happy ignorance declin'd,
And reason rose upon his mind,
Romantic hopes and fond desires
(Sparks of the soul's immortal fires !)
Kindled within his breast the rage
To breathe thro' every future age,
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