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; 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, Where, the sons of freedom braving, 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, For, as her love was quickly got, 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 1808.1 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, 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 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,- And thus I'll hush my heart to rest,"Thy loving labour's lost; Thou shalt no more be wildly blest, To be so strangely crost: They seek no loves-no more will I— EPITAPH,1 DESIGNED FOR A MONUMENT IN LICHFIELD CATHEDRAL At the Burial-Place of the Family of Miss Seward. AMID these aisles, where once his precepts show'd Still wouldst thou know why o'er the marble spread, THE RETURN TO ULSTER.1 ONCE again, but how changed since my wand'rings began I have heard the deep voice of the Lagan and Bann, And the pines of Clanbrassil resound to the roar, That wearies the echoes of fair Tullamore. Alas! my poor bosom, and why shouldst thou burn! With the scenes of my youth can its raptures return? Can I live the dear life of delusion again, That flow'd when these echoes first mix'd with my strain? It was then that around me, though poor and unknown, I had heard of our bards, and my soul was on fire But a vision of noontide, distinguish'd and clear. Ultonia's old heroes awoke at the call, And renew'd the wild pomp of the chase and the hall; And the standard of Fion flash'd fierce from on high; Like a burst of the sun when the tempest is nigh.2 1 [First published in Mr. G. Thompson's Collection of Irish Airs. 1816.] 2 In ancient Irish poetry, the standard of Fion, or Fingal, is called the Sun-burst, an epithet feebly rendered by the Sun-beam of Macpherson. |