THE VIOLET. THE violet in her green-wood bower, Where birchen boughs with hazels mingle, May boast itself the fairest flower In glen, or copse, or forest dingle. Though fair her gems of azure hue, Beneath the dew-drop's weight reclining, I've seen an eye of lovelier blue, More sweet through watʼry lustre shining. The summer sun that dew shall dry, Ere yet the day be past its morrow; No longer in my false love's eye, Remain'd the tear of parting sorrow. TO A LADY, WITH FLOWERS FROM A ROMAN WALL. TAKE these flowers, which, purple waving, On the ruin'd rampart grew, Where, the sons of freedom braving, Rome's imperial standard flew. Warriors from the breach of danger They but yield the passing stranger Wild-flower wreaths for Beauty's hair. THE RESOLVE. IN IMITATION OF AN OLD ENGLISH POEM.-1809. My wayward fate I needs must plain, Though bootless be the theme; I loved, and was beloved again, Yet all was but a dream; 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. Not maid more bright than maid was e'er My fancy shall beguile, By flattering word, or feigned tear, By gesture, look, or smile: No more I'll call the shaft fair shot, Till it has fairly flown, Nor scorch me at a flame so hot; I'll rather freeze alone. Each ambush'd Cupid I'll defy, And deem the glance of woman's eye As weak as woman's vow: I'll lightly hold the lady's heart, That is but lightly won; I'll steel my breast to beauty's art, And learn to live alone. The flaunting torch soon blazes out, The diamond's ray abides, The flame its glory hurls about, The gem its lustre hides; Such gem I fondly deem'd was mine, And glow'd a diamond stone, But, since each eye may see it shine, I'll darkling dwell alone. No waking dream shall tinge my thought With dyes so bright and vain, No silken net, so slightly wrought, 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,— I'll rather dwell alone. 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 : |