FROM A LADY,

TO HER LOVER.

RED with my tears, and strangers long to rest,
My eyes, at last, your welcome letter blest;
Blest, till the folds I burst with fatal speed,
And weep again, and tremble as I read:
* Yet, when the daring words my heart revolves,
Scarce what to wish, though wounded, it resolves.
If cold Indifference in your lines appears,
Wretched I view, and wash them with my tears.
If warm with amorous passion they o'erflow,
Fir'd at the sight, my conscious blushes glow.
Still where the crime, if Innocence confess'd,
That Love, chaste Love, inspir'd a woman's breast?

* Quid tamen ipse precer dubito: nec dicere possum,
Affectum quem te mentis habere velimi.

Tristis es? indignor, quod sum tibi causa doloris:

Non es? ut amisso conjuge digna fores.

OVID. TRIST. L. 4. EL. 3.

Yet this, ungrateful man to triumph turns,
And with forbidden fires presumptuous burns,
Our fond simplicity to guilt transforms,

And wounds the bosom that his image warms.
But know, rash youth, howe'er of me you deem,
Howe'er below respect my weakness, seem,
Know in this heart hath early virtue reign'd,
A father planted, and a mother train'd ;
Sacred to honour, and to heav'n it grew,
And guards its treasur'd fruit mature for you.
But could'st thou cherish once the abject thought,
That sapp'd by treacherous arts, or meanly bought,
What worlds could never purchase, it might give,
And I, the slave of vice, one moment live;
Thy lov'd idea from my heart I'd wring,

Though every vein should burst, and every string.
Ah! hope not, dare not, such a monstrous wrong,
Nor seek to add me to the guilty throng,
Whose griefs I pity, but their vices hate,

With horror view, and shun their wretched fate;
But wild suspicion clouds my frantic mind,
And still my friend is just, and still is kind,
Though cruel fortune from my arms detain,
And bind him struggling with her galling chain.
Come then, O come, to this fond bosom fly,
And bid my beauty live, my sorrows die.
No words can paint how faithful I will prove,
And must not tell how tenderly I love.

ELEGY

ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY,

BY JOHN GREENSHIELDS, ESQ.

DEAR to my soul, oh early lost!
Affection's arm was weak to save,
And Friendship's pride, and Virtue's boast,
Have sunk to an untimely grave.

Clos'd, ever clos'd, those speaking eyes,
Where sweetness beam'd, where candour shone !
And silent that heart-thrilling voice,
Which Music lov'd, and call'd her own.

That gentle bosom now is cold,

Where Feeling's vestal splendours glowed;
And crumbling down to common mould,
That heart, where love and truth abode.

Yet I behold the smile unfeign'd,
Which doubt dispelled and kindness won ;
Yet the soft diffidence, that gain'd
The triumph it appear'd to shun.

Delusion all- -forbear my heart,
These unavailing throbs restrain;
Destruction has perform'd his part,
And Death proclaims thy pangs are vain.

Vain tho' they be this heart must swell
With grief that time shall ne'er efface;
And still with bitter pleasure dwell,
On every virtue, every grace.

For ever lost! I vainly deem'd,

That Heaven my early friend would spare ;
And darker as the prospect seem'd,
The more I struggled with Despair.

I said yet a presaging tear
Unbidden rose, and spoke more true-
She still shall live-the unfolding year
Shall banish pain, and health renew.

She yet shall tread the flowery field,
And catch the opening roses breath;
To watchful Love Disease shall yield,
And Friendship ward the shafts of Death.

Alas! before the violet bloom'd,
Before the snows of winter fled,
Too certain Fate my hopes consum'd,
And she was numbered with the dead

She died deserving to be mourn'd,
While parted worth a pang can give;
She died by Heaven's best gifts adorn'd,
While Folly, Falsehood, Baseness, live.

Long in their vileness live secure
The noxious weed, and wounding thorn;
While snatch'd by violence ere mature,
The lilly from her stem is torn.

Flower worthy Heaven and Heaven alone,
Thee, good and pure, deserved to share-
On earth a stranger, only shown
To teach what angel natures are.

Yet, who shall blame the heart that feels,
When Heaven resumes the good it gave ?
Yet, who shall scorn the tear that steals
From Friendship's eye at Virtue's grave?

Friend, Parent, Sister, tenderest names,
May I, as pale at Memory's shrine
Ye pour the tribute anguish claims,
Approach, unblam'd, and mingle mine?

Long on the joys of vanish'd years,
The glance of sadness shall be cast;
Long, long, the emphatic speech of tears
Shall mourn their bloom forever past.