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On beds of tender myrtles laid,
Or melelot, supinely, spread,
I'll quaff the bowl; and, neatly dressed,
Young Cupid shall direct the feast.
Come! fill the bumper to the brim,
And heave away this load of time.
This little wheel of vital day
Shall shortly roll itself away ;
And when we to the dust return,
How small our portion in the urn!
Why should you then anoint my stone ?
Or earth with rich libations drown?
No: rather let my sleeky hair
The fragrant oil and chaplet wear,
While yet I live; with all her charms
fair-one to my arms;
And Love, before from hence I go,
To mingle with the shades below;
Here let me dissipate my care,
And leave my grief in upper air.
By night, on purple carpets spread,
When Bacchus hovered in my head;
In dreams I seemed to stretch the race
With virgins of the fairest face;
While taunting youths at distance stood,
As fair as of immortal blood;
And ridiculed me for the fair,
But seemed to wish themselves were there.
Unheeding I pursue my bliss,
And try to snatch one balmy kiss,
When, all at once, the vision fled,
And left me hapless on the bed :
The promised bliss hung in my brain;
I turned, and wished to sleep again.
Twice has the winter vexed the main,
And twice the summer parched the plain,
Since, absent from his Delia's eyes,
Remote the hapless poet sighs,
And sees the joyless seasons roll,
Far from the charmer of his soul.
In vain, to shroud thee from my eyes,
Or billows roll, or mountains rise,
When diving in the secret shade,
I see, in thought, my charming maid
In all the light of beauty move',
As when she warmed my heart to love :
" When diving in the secret shade,
I see, in thought, my charming maid
In all the light of beauty move.] “Of Evirallin were my thoughts, when in all the light of beauty she came.” Vol. i. p. 125. But the whole series of unappropriated poems, in Blacklock's Collection, is evidently the composition of the same author; and that author is undoubtedly Macpherson. The Cave alone had too much merit not to have been claimed, had it been written by any other than the father of Ossian. The very next poems, after this series in Blacklock's Collection, Adela, and Morna, were printed anonymously, as if by the same author; but in
Again her charms my soul surprise,
I feel the lightning of her eyes;
Her marble neck, her hair behold
Like winding tides of melted gold;
Ştill on her cheek the roses glow,
Still swells her breast of heaving snow.
The vision flies, delusive all!
From what a height poor mortals fall!
I wake to care-My fair no more
I see;—The winds around me roar;
Cold showers from sullen skies descend,
And storms the lofty forest rend;
I fly the tempest— leave the plain,
But oh! from love I fly in vain.
In crowds would I dissolve my care,
The peace I seek, I find not there.
My absent fair one prompts my sighs,
And calls the tears from both my eyes;
My heart beats thick against my side,
More swiftly rolls the crimson tide;
I sweat, I pant, my ears resound,
And vision dimly swims around.
I pine, I languish in my pain,
And scarce does half the man remain.
I eye the maids, the soft and gay,
And wish to look my soul away;
With other objects to supply
The fair, the adverse fates deny;
Ill were my fair by them supplied,-
Their form disgusts, but more their pride.
With haughty sneer they seem to say,
Away, dull impudence ! away!
the second volume, bad as they are, they were carefully assigned to the Honourable Andrew Erskine.
You look, you sigh, and weep in vain; 45
Go; woo some trull upon the plain.
With conscious shame I blush, I glow;
My Delia would not use me so
A packet !—'uis my Delia's hand-
What would my lovely maid command ?
Am I my fair-one's tender care?
Love me!- What would you love, my dear?
No fair domains of mine are spread,
No lofty villa rears its head;
No lowing herds are heard afar,
Nor neighs the courser at my car;
No pageantry of state is mine,
I boast no nobles in my line;
My numbers are admired by none, 3 min
Or by the partial maid alone; 17333;; S: S60
No beauties on my limbs arise,
Nor armed with lightning are my eyes :
Love me! what would you love, my dear?
A gen'rous heart-a mind sincere;
A soul that fortune's frowns defies,
Nor flatters fools I must despise,
Is all I boast, my charming fair!
Love me !—what would you love, my dear!