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But why not, dearest, tell me why?
He still with ardour press’d,
This haste is all a jest;
Right sure I am to win it,
I cannot stay a minute.
And shall go with me too, Nay, more, I'll make, by all that's just,
A bride this morn of you. This morn, said she, make me a bride,
There's something pleasing in it; Oh ! how I'm hurried, Emma cried,
Pray don't let's stay a minute.
THINE AM I. THINE am I, my faithful fair,
Thine, my lovely Nancy,
Every roving fancy.
There to throb and languish:
That would heal its anguish. Take away those rosy lips,
Rich with balmy treasure;
Lest I die with pleasure.
Night without a morning;
Nature gay adorning.
I KNEW BY THE SMOKE.
Above the green elms, that a cottage was near ; And I said, if there's peace to be found in the world,
The heart that was humble might hope for it here. 'Twas noon, and on flowers that languish'd around,
In silence repos’d the voluptuous bee;
But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech tree. And here in this lone little wood, I exclaim'd,
With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye, Who would blush when I prais'd her, and weep when
I blam’d, How bless'd could I live, and how calm could I die! By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips
In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recline, And to know that I sigh'd upon innocent lips,
Which had never been sigh'd on by any but mine.
COME REST IN THIS BOSOM. COME rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer! Though the herd have flown from thee, thy home is
still here ; Here still is a smile that no cloud can o'ercast, And the heart and the hand all thy own to the last.
Oh ! what was love made for if tis not the same Through joy and through torments, through glory
and shame ? I knew not I ask'd not if guilt's in that heart, But I know that I love thee, whatever thou art ! Thou call'st me thy angel in moments of bliss, Still thy angel I'll be 'mid the horrors of this, Through the furnace unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, And shield thee, and save thee, or perish there too !
HOME, SWEET HOME. Mid pleasures and palaces, though we may roam, Be it ever so húmble, there's no place like home ; A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, Which, seek through the world, is not met with else
where; Home, home-sweet, sweet home ! There's no place like home, there's no place like
Home, home sweet home;
THE BEACON, OR LIGHT-HOUSE. The scene was more beautiful far to my eye,
Than if day in its pride had array'd it ; The land breeze blew mild, and the azure arch'd sky
Look'd pure as the spirit that made it. • The murmur rose soft as I silently gaz'd
On the shadowy waves playful motion,
From the dim distant isle, till the beacon-fire blaz'd
Like a star in the midst of the ocean.
Was heard in his wildly breath'd numbers;
The fisherman sunk to his slumbers:
(All hush'd was the billows' commotion) And thought that the beacon 'look'd lovely as hope,
That star of life's tremulous ocean.
Yet, when my head rests on its pillow,
That blaz’d on the breast of the billow. In life's closing hour, when the trembling soul Alies .
And death stills the heart's last emotion; O! then may the seraph of mercy arise
Like a star on eternity's ocean!
Or hit the mark upon his infant's head-
And soldiers march'd with grief and dread!
Gaz'd all around with dauntless look,
Then nature and the father spoke.
For they sigh,
And wildly cry,
And straight the pointed arrow flies,
The trembling boy expects his doom,
All, all shriek out- he dies! he dies." When lo! the lofty trumpet sounds!
The mark is hit! the child is free! Into his father's arms he bounds,
Inspir'd by love and liberty! And now each valiant Swiss their joy partakes,
For mountains ring,
Whilst they sing,
NOTHING TRUE BUT HEAVEN.
For man's illusion giv’n;
There's nothing true but Heaven.
As fading hues of even; And Love, and Hope, and Beauty's bloom, Are blossoms gather'd for the tomb
There's nothing bright but Heaven! Poor wanderers of a stormy day!
From wave to wave we're driven; And fancy's flash, and Reason's ray, Serve but to light the troubled way
There's nothing calm but Heaven!
FRIEND OF MY SOUL.
'Twill chase each pensive tear;
But oh! 'tis more sincere.