SONNET,
FROM P. SALANDRI.
THE more divinely beautiful thou art, Lady! be constant to thy chosen youth, Watch o'er thy charms, be jealous of thy truth, O! guard thy maiden innocence of heart!
At every whisper of temptation start; From the fell sorcery of that Serpent's eye The Guardian Angels of thy breast would fly, And all the Paradise of Love depart.
When from the bowels of some Alpine hill, Fresh springs the fountain, sparkling into day, And sunbeams bathe and brighten in its bed; If o'er the brink wild herbs and flowerets spread, Sip the light wave, and wanton with the rill, It ebbs, and languishes, and dies away.
Written at the Grave of a young Lady.
BY THE LATE W. GROVE, ESQ. OF LITCHFIELD.
STRANGER, whose pensive step shall haply stray To this sequester'd spot, at evening's close, When deep'ning shades to serious thought dispose, Here pause; and Pity's tear humanely pay At BEAUTY's tomb !- Untimely snatch'd away, Here Sense, and Youth, and Innocence repose In Earth's dark bosom. Thus the tender rose Its lovely head in Winter's adverse day Shrouds:-Yet shall Hope her christian comforts give, And dart her radiance thro' the grave's cold gloom, Triumphant. As in spring again shall live The flower that late dispens'd its rich perfume, So shall this fairer flower at length revive, Glorious thro' Heaven's eternal spring to bloom.
FROM those drear evils that, empois'ning life, Spread dark suspicion o'er the doubting mind, That set us almost with the world at strife, Shrouding the social comforts Heaven design'd; From the harsh cavils of contentious Pride, The supple wiliness of sordid Art, Of Treachery-that to the mole allied, Can undermine the too incautious heart :- From ills like these, that o'er my spirit lour, And seem to threaten some disastrous doom; Thine, lov'd MARIA! is the cheering power Whose sun-like force can chase each mental gloom, For at thy smile, like morning mists they flee, And make me prize my being still for thee!
BY THE LATE W. GROVE, ESQ.
HAIL to thy blushing dawn, ambrosial Rose I Fairest of flowers that to the eye of day The fragrant slope and gay parterre display, When o'er their swelling bosoms Flora throws Her gorgeous mantle; and each gem that glows, From rich Golconda, meets a rival ray To shame her own :-Queen of the garden, say, Say loveliest, as around thy infant brows Sport the light Zephyrs, why in throned state Where dwells thy modest beauty, plants the thorn His jealous guards? In vain! since niggard Fate To short-liv'd glories bids thy race be born; And tho' no daring hand curtails their date, Scarce shall thy charms survive one Summer's morn.
Written in a blank Leaf of a Lady's Volume of Manuscript Poems.
BY THEOPHILUS SWIFT, ESQ.
COME, Fancy! from thy fairy haunts repair! Queen of the rainbow robe, and sunward eye! Whether an eagle, thundering thro' the sky, Thy swift wing sweeps th' unmeasur'd void of air, Or Hell's strong gate thy magic key unlocks. Whether, descending to the Lover's aid, Thou wear'st the semblance of the darling maid, Ah! sweet illusion ! that not wholly mocks. Oh! with the passions probing all the heart, Thy store of charms, and marvels of the Muse, Come!-all thy visions, all thy spells impart! For once be kind! nor oh! my prayer refuse. But when thou visit next thy Sappho's bower, Tell her one Bard has robb'd her of a flower.
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