To the Tune of “Oh! Lady fair! where art thou going?”
Sing, bird of grief! still eve descending,
And soothe a mind with sorrow rending;
Ne’er may I see the blush of morrow,
But close this night the sigh of sorrow;
Then, if some wand’rer here directed
Shall find my mossy grave neglected,
May he replace the weed that’s growing
With the nearest flow’r that’s blowing!
IMPROMPTU LINES
UPON A VERY HANDSOME WOMAN
Keeping the Hotel de Lion Blanc, at Dantzig.
The sign of the house should be chang’d, I’ll be sworn,
Where enchanted we find so much beauty and grace;
Then quick from the door let the lion be torn,
And an angel expand her white wings in his place.
LINES
UPON SEEING A BEAUTIFUL INFANT SLEEPING ON THE BOSOM OF ITS MOTHER.
Upon its native pillow dear,
The little slumb’rer finds repose;
His fragrant breath eludes the ear—
A zephyr passing o’er a rose.
Yet soon from that pure spot of rest
(Love’s little throne!) shalt thou be torn;
Time hovers o’er thy downy nest,
To crown thy baby-brow with thorn.
Ah! thoughtless! couldst thou now but see
On what a world thou soon must move,
Or taste the cup prepar’d for thee
Of grief, lost hopes, or widow’d love,
Ne’er from that breast thou’d’st raise thine head,
But thou would’st breathe to Heav’n a pray’r
To let thee, ere thy blossom fade,
In one fond sigh exhale thee there.