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To watch the blossom's gem,-the deepening green,
The kindly converse, and the modest mind.
I love the sighing of the solemn grove, The soft half warble of the twilight song, The fragrant eve's refreshing calm I love!
If friends have passed, and sorrows found their place, And the hurt mind laments its lone career,
If lost, of life, the sunshine and the grace,
Yet may the tender gleam of Hope appear.
There the crushed thought shall find a voice, and there
Warm the cold cheek, and light the languid eyes.
His gentle manners wan my heart,
It wou'd be war than theft,
The love he bears to me;
And e'er I'm forc'd to break my troth,
Mais les Tems sont changes, aussi bien que les Lieux. Racine.
When each new day some glorious triumph brought,
How dear that place, the paradise of thought,
Where sacred Love and Friendship us'd to dwell:
On eagle wing the hours of rapture flew,
And from this bosom ev'ry comfort bore;
Which still to me a pleasing aspect wore.
The muse of Robert Herrick, who flourished in the reign of Charles I., was a genuine descendant from that of Anacreon, as the following song will testify.
Gather the rose-buds while ye may,
And this same flower that smiles to-day
The glorious light of heav'n, the sun,
The age is best which is the first,
Then be not coy, but use your time,
Dispregiator di quanto 'l mondo brama. Petrarch.
For me, how oft must I lament in vain,
Content through life's sequester'd vale to glide,
I want not a goddess, to clasp in my arms,
But give me a maiden who smiles without art,
I sigh'd when I saw what I lov'd in a maid,
But yet she delights in my music and rhyme,
Of late as I sung in a passionate strain,
She was mov'd with my song and perhaps with my pain;
"Tis foolish to hope-'tis in vain to despair,
If I fail to possess her, adieu to the fair
By reading I'll strive to recover my rest,
TO MY CHILDREN.
Heu! quam minus est reliquis versari, quam vestrorum meminisse.
These verses were written, as the author informs us, under the influence of great depression of spirits. The subject is of a nature we should have thought, too sacred for the public eye, had not Cowper taught us that a mind of acute and shrinking sensibility, can strangely find a solace in laying open to that unseen public the inmost recesses of the heart. We envy not the feelings of him who can peruse these lines without emotion: they abound with images which must find a mirror in the breast of every parent.
My babes, no more I'll behold ye,
Little think ye how he ye once lov'd,
How with many a pang he is saddened,
For the eight human blossoms that gladdened
None knows what a fond parent smothers,
Who once more in his daughters, their mother's,
And who-can I finish my story?—
Has seen them all shrink from his grasp; Departed the crown of his glory,
No wife and no children to clasp!—
By all the dear names I have uttered,
By the kisses so fond I have given,
By the plump little arm's cleaving twine, By the bright eye whose language was heaven, By the rose on the cheek pressed to mine.
By its warmth that seemed pregnant with spirit;
By the breast that with pleasure was troubled,
By the girl who, to sleep when consigned,
If her father's farewell were neglected;
Who asked me, when infancy's terrors