Enough now thy story in annals of glory Has humbled the pride of France, Holland, and Spain; No more shalt thou grieve me, no more shalt thou leave me, I never will part with my Willie again. HUNTING SONG' 1 WAKEN, lords and ladies gay, With hawk, and horse, and hunting-spear! Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling, 66 Waken, lords and ladies gay." Waken, lords and ladies gay, The mist has left the mountain grey, 1 [First published in the Edinburgh Annual Register of 1808, -and set to a Welsh air in "THOMSON'S Select Melodies," vol. iii. 1817.] Waken, lords and ladies gay, We can show the marks he made; Louder, louder chant the lay, Time, stern huntsman! who can balk,. SONG. Он, say not, my love, with that mortified air, That your spring-time of pleasure is flown, Nor bid me to maids that are younger repair, For those raptures that still are thine own. Though April his temples may wreathe with the vine, Its tendrils in infancy curl'd, 'Tis the ardour of August matures us the wine, Whose life-blood enlivens the world. Though thy form, that was fashion'd as light as a fay's, Has assumed a proportion more round, And thy glance, that was bright as a falcon's at gaze, Looks soberly now on the ground, Enough, after absence to meet me again, Thy steps still with ecstasy move; Enough, that those dear sober glances retain THE VIOLET.1 THE violet in her green-wood bower, In glen, or copse, or forest dingle. Though fair her gems of azure hue, More sweet through wat'ry lustre shining. The summer sun that dew shall dry, Remain'd the tear of parting sorrow. 1 This and the following piece appeared in the "English Minstrelsy." vol. ii. Edinburgh: 1810.] TO A LADY. WITH FLOWERS FROM A ROMAN WALL. TAKE these flowers, which, purple waving, Warriors from the breach of danger THE RESOLVE.' IN IMITATION OF AN OLD ENGLISH POEM.-1809 My wayward fate I needs must plain, I loved, and was beloved again, So it was quickly gone; No more I'll bask in flame so hot, But coldly dwell alone. '[Published in the Edinburgh Annual Register of 1808.] Not maid more bright than maid was e'er My fancy shall beguile, By flattering word, or feigned tear, No more I'll call the shaft fair shot, Till it has fairly flown, Nor scorch me at a flame so hot;- Each ambush'd Cupid I'll defy, I'll steel my breast to beauty's art, The flaunting torch soon blazes out, Such gem I fondly deem'd was mine, And glow'd a diamond stone, I'll darkling dwell alone. No waking dream shall tinge my thought With dyes so bright and vain, No silken net, so slightly wrought, Shall tangle me again: No more I'll pay so dear for wit, I'll live upon mine own, Nor shall wild passion trouble it,- |