But thou, for whom in life's fair bloom Thou sleep'st, my love, still be thy breast R. A. DAVENPORT. A MORNING SALUTATION. THOU rose of my love! from thy slumber arise! And opening its leaves to the breath of the gales, A pleasure to gladden thy lover's fond heart; When absent from thee he still thinks on thy charms, And sighs to be folded once more in thy arms. Then, rose of my love! in thy beauty appear, And the songs and the odours again will be dear; The beams of the dawn with fresh glory be crown'd, And the soul of delight breathe enchantment around. VOL. III. R. A. DAVENPORT. M M SONG. AIR-Jess Macpharlane. WHY ceaseless do I sigh? What mean my broken slumbers? And breathe but mournful numbers? O my heart, why beating Dost thou ask to die, That wish each hour repeating? O, 'tis love, 'tis love! Alas! to soothe my pain, No hope my soul can borrow: Still must I love in vain; O my love! though sighing, But bless thee even in dying: R. A. DAVENPORT. SONG. DEAREST mother, sure I find Charms in Damon's every feature; And Damon, innocent and kind, Would surely harm no living creature; Yet, when I hear but Damon's name, My cheeks are crimson'd o'er with blushes, And through all my languid frame A strange and sudden tremor rushes; And sighs my throbbing bosom swell, Tell me, dearest mother, tell Why thus I blush, and sigh, and tremble? R. A. DAVENPORT. SONG. Nor ruby clear nor damask rose As that sweet lip that, fraught with bliss, Yet, though I deem it heaven to sip The dewy balm of such a lip, And though thou bidst that lip be mine, Fair, smooth, and round, thy heaving breast In all the trance of ecstasy. Yet, though so smooth, so round, so white And though thou bidst me there recline, Bright are those eyes; who dares to gaze What prompts me, then, averse to fly R. A. DAVENPORT. SONG. I AM wearing away like the snow in the sun, But never, while I can my feelings control, Though longing to weep, in his presence I'll smile, Call the flush on my cheek the pure crimson of health; His fears for my peace by my song I'll beguile, Nor venture to gaze on his eyes but by stealth. For conscious I am, by my glance is express'd The passion that faithful as hopeless will be, And he, whom, alas! I can ne'er render bless'd, Shall never, no never, know sorrow through me. MRS. OPIE. Bears, like the Turk, no rival near his throne. Pope. SONG. To thy cliffs, rocky Seaton, adieu! REV. W. CROWE. 1 SONG. IN THE STYLE OF MR. CROWE'S SONG, ' SEATON FROM thy waves, stormy Lannow, I fly, Her smile to that scene could impart A charm that might rival the bloom of the vale ;But away thou fond dream of my heart! To thy rocks, stormy Lannow, adieu! Now the blasts of the Winter come on, And the waters grow dark as they rise; But 'tis well!-they resemble the sullen disdain That has lour'd in those insolent eyes. Sincere were the sighs it repress'd, |