Loathing thy polluted lot, Hie thee, Maiden, hie thee hence! Seek thy weeping Mother's cot, Thou hast known deceit and folly, With a musing melancholy Inly arm'd, go, Maiden! go. Mother sage of Self-dominion, Firm thy steps, O Melancholy ! The strongest plume in wisdom's pinion Is the memory of past folly. Mute the sky-lark and forlorn, While she moults the firstling plumes, That had skimm'd the tender corn, Or the bean-field's odorous blooms. Soon with renovated wing Shall she dare a loftier flight, Upward to the day-star spring And embathe in heavenly light. LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT-ROOM. NOR cold, nor stern, my soul! yet I detest These feel not Music's genuine power, nor deign Hark! the deep buzz of Vanity and Hate! My lady eyes some maid of humbler state, O give me, from this heartless scene releas'd, His Scottish tunes and warlike marches play, By moonshine, on the balmy summer-night, Or lies the purple evening on the bay Around whose roots the fisher's boat is tied, On whose trim seat doth Edmund stretch at ease, And while the lazy boat sways to and fro, Breathes in his flute sad airs, so wild and slow, That his own cheek is wet with quiet tears. But O, dear Anne! when midnight wind careers, Whom his own true-love buried in the sands! The Things of Nature utter; birds or trees Or moan of ocean-gale in weedy caves, Or where the stiff grass mid the heath-plant waves, Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze. THE KEEP-SAKE. THE tedded hay, the first-fruits of the soil, And the rose (In vain the darling of successful love) Stands, like some boasted beauty of past years, By rivulet, or spring, or wet road-side, With delicate fingers on the snow-white silk * One of the names (and meriting to be the only one) of the Myosotis Scorpioides Palustris; a flower from six to twelve inches high, with blue blossom and bright yellow eye. It has the same name over the whole Empire of Germany (Vergissmein nicht), and we believe, in Denmark and Sweden. In the cool morning twilight, early waked Leaving the soft bed to her sleeping sister, Down the slope coppice to the woodbine bower, Making a quiet image of disquiet In the smooth, scarcely moving river-pool. There, in that bower where first she own'd her love, From off her glowing cheek, she sate and stretch'd Nor yet th' entrancement of that maiden kiss With which she promis'd, that when spring return'd, She would resign one half of that dear name, And own thenceforth no other name but mine! |