Part 9 (1/2)

Meek Maid! that sitting on yon lofty tower, View'st the calm floods that wildly beat below, Be off!--yon sunbeam veils a heavy shower, Which sets my heart with joy a aching, oh!

For why, O maid, with locks of jetty flax, Should grief convulse my heart with joyful knocks?

It is but reasonable you should ax, Because it soundeth like a paradox.

Hear, then, bright virgin! if the rain comes down, 'Twill wet the roads, and spoil my morning ride; But it will also spoil thy bran-new gown, And therefore cure thee of thy cursed pride.

Moral--this sonnet, if well understood, Shows the same thing may bring both harm and good.

LINES,

DELIVERED AFTER THE REPRESENTATION OF A PLAY AT A YOUNG LADIES' BOARDING SCHOOL.

When first the infant bird attempts to fly, And cautious spreads its pinions to the sky, Each happy breeze the timid trav'ller cheers, a.s.sists its efforts, and allays its fears; Return'd--how pleas'd it views the shelt'ring nest From which it rose, with doubt and fear oppress'd.

Like this, is ours; this night we ventur'd out On juv'nile wing, appall'd by many a doubt, Cheer'd by your sanction, every peril o'er, With joy we hail this welcome, friendly sh.o.r.e: Our little band, ambitious now to raise A pleasing off'ring for your wreath of praise On them bestow'd, depute me here to tell The lively feelings that their bosoms swell; For your indulgent and parental part, They feel the triumph of a grateful heart: That, each revolving year shall truly prove, How much they honor, how sincere they love; And for your fostering care will make return By filial duty, and desire to learn.

ON THE DEATH OF

GENERAL SIR RALPH ABERCROMBIE.

Mute, memory stands, at valor's awful shrine, In tears Britannia mourns her hero dead; A world's regret, brave Abercrombie's thine.

For nature sorrow'd as thy spirit fled!

For, not the tear that matchless courage claims To honest zeal, and soft compa.s.sion due, Alone is thine--o'er thy ador'd remains Each virtue weeps, for all once liv'd in you.

Yes, on thy deeds exulting I could dwell, To speak the merits of thy honor'd name; But, ah! what need my humble muse to tell, When rapture's self has echo'd forth thy fame?

Yet, still thy name its energies shall deal, When wild-storms gather round thy country's sun; Her glowing youth shall grasp the gleamy steel, Rank'd round the glorious wreaths which thou hast won!

TO ..........

In vain, sweet Maid! for me you bring The first-blown blossoms of the spring; My tearful cheek you wipe in vain, And bid its pale rose bloom again.

In vain! unconscious, did I say?

Oh! you alone these tears can stay: Alone, the pale rose can renew, Whose suns.h.i.+ne is a smile for you.