Whate'er the animated heart
Thro' timid looks conveys;
More potent than the painter's art,
Or poet's magic lays:
Whate'er of liberal, polish'd, meek,
The female race supply;
Flush in Honoria's blooming cheek,
Or languish in her eye!
Shun then, fond swain! the danger shun!
While yet thy fears have breath;
To linger here's to be undone―
To fly, is worse than death!
Instruct me then, some gracious power!
Her pity to implore;
Be this a favourable hour,
Or beat this heart no more!
Ir a kiss so offend you, dear maid,
And to punish the insult you burn,
Let affront with affront be repaid,
And kiss me ten times in return.
"Twas dreadful all-the scene around
The wearied eye could never bound,
The list'ning ear scarce heard a sound,
Save when reechoed back the ground
The pealing voice of War.
The morning sun had seen the plain
Adorned with Autumn's waving grain;
At evening when he looked again,
Through sulphurous clouds, of crimson stain,
'Twas ruin, wide and far.
The smiling cots no more appeared,
Or dimly seen, where darkly reared
Their mouldering walls, whose falling heard
By watching swains, told them interr'd
Was every hope their home.
The balmy breeze at morning's dawn,
Had wafted sweets from every lawn,
Till War, at evening, bade it fan
The burning homes of houseless man,
On burning wings to roam.
The swain, who scarce an hour ago
Trod o'er his fields nor feared a foe,
Now skulked his native woods below,
And looked from every bush a blow,
And waited as for death.
Or, if from his retreat he dared,
His flaming home before him glared,
The groans of dying friends he heard,
Or saw, perhaps, the blade prepared
To cut a parent's breath.
But now, the noise of war was o'er,
Or, scarcely heard its distant roar,
And flames that sweeped the vale before,
Were sunk, and pained the eye no more,
Nor groan awaked the gloom.
'Twas drearest horror's deepest shade,
In all its darkest forms arrayed,
Where Nature seemed in ruin laid
Upon the pile that War had made,
In silence like the tomb.
To paint the form is easy, but the mind
Is hard in thee this rule revers'd we find;
For visible throughout the hideous whole
Nature has stamp'd thy crookedness of soul;
But that foul form, where no two parts agree,
Who can delineate, while he loathes to see?
WEET is the balmy breath of Spring,
When butterflies are on the wing;
When songsters warble in the trees,
And health is wafted on the breeze;
Sweet are the flowers that ope at morn,
The violet sweet beneath the thorn;
Sweet is the music of the grove,
But sweeter far the maid I love!
The rose that blushes on her cheek,
The lily white that paints her neck,
Outvie the flowers that Flora yields,
To grace in vernal pride the fields;
The perfume of her honied breath,
Is sweeter than the scented heath;
Than spicy aromatic grove,
Far sweeter is the maid I love!
No tempests in her bosom rave,
Calm as the stilly sleeping wave;
As soft and gentle as the gale,
That bids the vernal blossoms hail;
The roseate hues that Summer grace,
Are nought compared to Laura's face;
Ye blushing flowers! ye vainly strove,
For sweeter far's the maid I love!
FROM THE FRENCH OF THE CHEVALIER PARNY.
ME with caresses still you
Promises you still repeat;
And Zephyr wafts, in wanton play,
Your faithless promises away!
"To-morrow," every day you cry:
I haste ere dawn illumes the sky;
I haste, but find my hopes betray'd,
For, flying constant to your aid,
Bashful Fear, provoking sprite!
Puts the sportive loves to flight.
Yet, when deluded I complain,
"To-morrow" you exclaim again.
Laura! thank indulgent heaven,
Who so long the power has given,
your face and form each day
Some new-born beauty to display.
Yet hope not that such matchless grace
Will always deck your form and face;
For, onward as he speeds, your bloom
TIME will touch with withering plume.
Then, O! of coy delay beware!
Quickly grant the promis'd blessing:
To-morrow you may be less fair,
And I, perhaps, not quite so pressing.
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