From O——
| Loud beats the rain! The hollow groan Of rushing winds I hear, That with a deep and sullen moan, Pass slowly by the ear. Soon will my dying fire refuse To yield a cheerful ray, Yet, shivering still I sit and muse The latest spark away. Ah, what a night! the chilly air Bids comfort hence depart, While sad repining's clammy wings Cling icy, to my heart. To-morrow's dawn may fair arise, And lovely to the view; The sun with radiance gild the skies, Yet then—I say adieu! Oh, stay, dear Night, with cautious care, And lingering footsteps move, Though day may be more soft and fair, Not her, but thee, I love. Stay, wild in brow, severe in mien, Stay! and ward off the foe; Who, unrelenting smiles serene, Yet tells me I must go. Forsake these hospitable halls, Where Truth and Friendship dwell, To these high towers and ancient walls, Pronounce a long farewell. Alas! will Time's rapacious hand, These golden days restore? Or will he suffer me to taste These golden days no more? Will he permit that here again, I turn my willing feet? That my glad eyes may here again, The look of kindness meet? That here I ever may behold, Felicity to dwell, And often have the painful task Of sighing out farewell? Ah, be it so! my fears I lose, By hope's sweet visions fed; And as I fly to seek repose, She flutters round my bed. NOV. 17, 1796. |
[!-- RULE4 15 --] TO M.I.
| Thou, Margaret, lov'st the secret shade, The murmuring brook, or tow'ring tree; The village cot within the glade, And lonely walk have charms for thee. To thee more dear the jasmine bow'r, That shelt'ring, undisturb'd retreat, Than the high canopy of pow'r, Or Luxury's embroider'd seat. More sweet the early morning breeze, Whose odours fill the rural vale, The waving bosom of the seas, When ruffled by the rising gale. Than all which pride or pomp bestow, To grace the lofty Indian maid, Who prizes more the diamond's glow, Than all in humbler vest array'd. Sweet is the rural festive song, Which sounds so wildly o'er the plain, When thoughtless mirth the notes prolong, And heart-felt pleasure pours the strain. Sweet is the dance where light and gay, The village maiden trips along; Her simple robe in careless play, As her fleet step winds round the throng. Sweet is the labourer's blazing fire, When evening shades invite to rest; Though weary, home does joy inspire, And social love dilates his breast. His rural lass with glee prepares, The dainties fondness made her hoard; Her husband now the banquet shares, And children croud around the board. Ah! who could wish to view the air Of listless ease and languid wealth? Who with such pleasures could compare The joys of innocence and health? AUGUST 20, 1796. |
[!-- RULE4 16 --] CANTATA. DEL METASTASIO.
| "D'atre nubi è il sol ravvolto, Luce infausta il Ciel colora. Pur chi sa? Quest' alma ancora La speranza non perdè. Non funesta ogni tempesta Co' naufragj all' onde il seno; Ogni tuono, ogni baleno Sempre un fulmine non è." |