For thee blest Friendship weaves her deathless bowers,
Bright in the sunshine of a purer sphere,
And Virtue watches o'er the opening flowers
That mock the changes of the varying Year.
No blast shall wither her Elysian grove,
Tho' fierce and strong conflicting tempests roll,
But gales like Eden's vesper hymns of love,
Shall charm to peace the visionary soul.
Ah! while she warmed th' enthusiast's glowing breast
With the pure fervors of her rays divine;
In gentle tones she breathed the mild behest,
To lay this humble offering on her shrine.
EDINBURGH, DEC. 31, 1802.
BY THEOPHILUS SWIFT, ESQ.
Now, Venus, thou'rt doubled, and two we adore;
The Muses are ten, and the Graces are four.
Nor marvel, ye bards! don't ye know your Trefusis?
Trefusis a Venus, a Grace, and a Muse is.
Anxiously attending the Bed side of a Brother, dan gerously Ill.
FAIR Maid! whose streaming tears incessant flow,
In tender anguish, at a brother's woe;
This tribute from th' admiring Muse receive,
Whose soul the pangs of kindred torture rive.
With midnight vigils for that Brother pale,
Model of goodness and affection, hail!
With anxious cares, and sad forebodings worn,
Thou wilt not from his faithful arms be torn ;
Thine the fond painful task his couch to tend,
And soothe the sorrows of my suffering friend,
Doom'd in the bloom of youth, (so Heaven ordains)
To languish on the rack of ceaseless pains.
Oh! never quit the spot-for what can prove,
So rich a balsam as a Sister's love?
Still fix thy station near that mournful Bed,
Raise his faint limbs, and prop his drooping head;
Watch every glance of his faint-beaming eye,
Nor let him breathe a wish, nor heave a sigh,
For aught that this vain transient world can yield,
Through Art's wide range, or Nature's ampler field;
And sweetly whisper in his raptured ear,
THAT GOD CORRECTS THOSE SONS HE HOLDS
So, should disease thy beauteous form invade,
Ne'er shalt thou want, sweet girl, congenial aid!
No lovelier scene, on earth, the sun surveys,
Than when through yonder chamber dart his rays;
A Sister of such worth, so fond, so kind,
A Brother, midst such dreadful pangs resign'd;
Admiring angels look with transport down,
And seraphs weave, for both, the immortal crown.
On seeing an aged Debtor enter a Place of Confinement.
MAN of Years! and man of Sorrow!
Com'st thou to a place like this?
Ah! for thee, I fear, no morrow,
Rises with new hope of bliss.
Earthward, lo! thy head is bended,
Faint and feeble seems thy frame,
Nearly are thy sad days ended;
to thy throne of glory,
God of Mercy! be his prayer. Vainly hears the world his story; O! there is no mercy there!
Written on seeing the Corpse of a beautiful Young Woman the Night before her Interment.
GLEAM the pale tapers round the couch of death, Their dim light quivering in the rushing storm; How my blood freezes as the night-wind's breath Heaves the white folds that shroud the lifeless form.
With trembling hand I raise the sacred veil
To trace the cold wan features of the dead; Ah me! the lingering rose, with hues so pale,
Still tints the cheek where Death's chill dews are shed.
Her stiffened lip still wears its mournful smile,
The azure eye thro' half-closed lashes gleams:
Why did my heart from this calm scene recoil,
By Fancy darkened in her troubled dreams?
Oh, while I linger round the midnight bier,
Where the lov'd idol of a friendless breast
Unconscious slumbers-ah, methinks, I hear
Her spirit call me to unbroken rest.
To-morrow's sun shall rise upon the grave,
That opes its bosom to the orient ray,
And ere it trembles on the western wave,
Shall close for ever on that beauteous clay.
Back to thy burning source, unbidden teår,
The dream, the dazzling dream of hope is o'er;
I'll teach my soul this awful stroke to bear,
With deepest reverence, and repine no more.
EDINBURGH, APRIL 16, 1803.
BY THEOPHILUS SWIFT, ESQ.
To Laura's breast, sweet Rose, repair,
Let no rude hand approach her there;
But guard the treasure you adorn,
And for my rivals keep thy thorn.
Thy graces there, fond Rose, reveal,
Her bosom deck, but not conceal;
There all thy world of sweets employ,
Within that sweeter world of joy.
For in that Paradise we trace
Lost Eden's long disputed place;
Which doubting Wits in vain had sought,
"Till Laura's bosom fix'd the spot.
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