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Shine, where my charmer's sweeter breath
Embalms thy soft exhaling dew;
Where dying winds a sigh bequeath,
To kiss the cheek of rosy hue.
Where, winnow'd, by the gentle air,
Her silken tresses darkly flow,
And fall upon her brows so fair,
Like shadows on the mountain snow.
Thus, ever thus, at day's decline,
In converse sweet to wander far,
Oh! bring with thee my CAROLINE,
And thou shalt be my ruling star!
WITHOUT a stone to mark the spot,
And say, what Truth might well have said,
By all, save one, perchance forgot,
Ah, wherefore art thou lowly laid?
By many a shore and many a sea
Divided, yet belov'd in vain;
The past, the future fled to thee
To bid us meet-no-ne'er again!
Could this have been-a word-a look
That softly said, “We part in peace," Had taught my bosom how to brook, With fainter sighs, thy soul's release.
And didst thou not, since Death for thee
Prepar❜d a light and pangless dart,
Once long for him thou ne'er shalt see,
Who held, and holds thee in his heart?
Oh! who like him had watch'd thee here?
Or sadly mark'd thy glazing eye,
In that dread hour ere death appear,
When silent Sorrow fears to sigh,
Till all was past? But when no more
"Twas thine to reck of human woe,
Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er,
Had flow'd as fast-as now they flow.
Shall they not flow, when many a day
In these, to me, deserted towers,
Ere call'd but for a time away,
Affection's mingling tears were ours?
Ours too the glance none saw beside;
The smile none else might understand;
The whisper'd thought of hearts allied,
The pressure of the thrilling hand;
The kiss so guiltless and refin'd
That Love each warmer wish forbore; Those eyes proclaim'd so pure a mind, Ev'n passion blush'd to plead for more. The tone, that taught me to rejoice, When prone, unlike thee, to repine;
The song, celestial from thy voice,
But sweet to me from none but thine;
The pledge we wore--I wear it still,
But where is thine?-ah, where art thou?
Oft have I borne the weight of ill,
But never bent beneath till now;
Well hast thou left in life's best bloom
The cup of woe for me to drain.
If rest alone be in the tomb,
I would not wish thee here again;
But if in worlds more blest than this
Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere,
Impart some portion of thy bliss,
To wean me from mine anguish here.
Teach me too early taught by thee!
To bear, forgiving and forgiv'n:
On earth thy love was such to me;
It fain would form my hope in heav'n!
O MORN! I hail thy soft, enchanting breezes,
Thy soul-felt presence, and reviving light;
Thy glad approach my anxious bosom eases,
And care and sorrow for a while take flight.
Like youth's gay hours, or Spring's delicious season,
To me once more thy balmy breath appears;
Lost hope returns, assumes the face of reason,
And half persuades to flight oppressive fears.
While darkened casements vainly light excluded, I wooed propitious sleep with languid sighs, Care through the gloom his anxious face obtruded, And banished slumber from my weary eyes.
The tedious hours I told with watchful anguish,
And oft, O Morn! accused thy long delay:
I hail thee now, no longer vainly languish,
But quit my couch, and bless refreshing day.
Through the long night, impatient, sad, and weary,
How melancholy life itself appeared!
Lo! cheerful day illumes my prospects dreary,
And how diminished are the ills I feared!
Though pleasure shine not in the expected morrow,
Though nought were promised but return of care,
The light of heaven could banish half my sorrow,
And comfort whispers in the fresh, cool air.
I hear the grateful voice of joy and pleasure,
All nature seems my sadness to reprove,
High trills the lark his wild ecstatic measure,
The groves resound with liberty and love:
Ere his glad voice proclaimed thy dawning early,
How oft deceived I rose thy light to hail;
Through the damp grass hoarse accents sounded cheerly,
As wooed his distant love the wakeful rail.
Oh, you! who murmur at the call of duty,
And quit your pillow with reluctant sloth,
For whom the Morn in vain displays her beauty,
While tasteless you can greet her smiles so loth.
You cannot know the charm which o'er me stealing,
Revives my senses as I taste her breath,
Which half repays the agony of feeling
A night of horrors, only less than death.
DEAR girl, in my simple opinion,
Your sex are to blame, when they pant To possess, as a right, the dominion, Which is not denied as a grant.
Prerogative seems not the basis
Best suited for women's command, When influence keeps them their places, And gives them the rule of the land.
The proudest is far from a goddess:
The brightest less bright than a star:
And, as men are not heavenly bodies,
I think you do best as you are.
In your sweet, simple nature of woman,
You have the ascendant you seek:
You are worshipp'd-because you are human
And potent-because you are weak.