TO MY ROSE.
Bright queen of flowers, O! Rose, gay blooming,
How lovely are thy charms to me!
Narcissus proud, pink unassuming,
In beauty vainly vie with thee;
When thou midst Flora's circle shinest,
Each seems thy slave confessed to sigh,
And thou, O! loveliest flower, divinest,
Allur'st alone the passer's eye.
To change thy fate the thought has struck me,
Sweet Rose, in beauty, ah! how blest,
For fair Eliza I will pluck thee,
And thou shalt deck her virgin breast:--
Yet, there thy beauties vainly shining,
No more predominance will claim,
To lilies, all thy pride resigning,
Thou'lt yield without dispute thy fame.
TO CUPID.
Cupid, one arrow kindly spare,
'Twill yield me transport beyond measure,
I'll not be mean, by heaven I swear,
With Mary I'll divide the treasure.
Thou wilt not?--Tyrant, now I see
Thou lovest with grief my soul to harrow;
To her thou'st given thy quiver--for me
Thou hast not left a single arrow!
EVENING MEDITATIONS.
Nature in silence sank, and deep repose,
Behind the mountain, Sol had ceased to glare,
Timid the moon with modest lustre rose,
Willing as though my misery to share.
The past was quick presented to my mind,
A gentle languor calmed each throbbing vein,
My poor heart trembled as the leaves from wind,
My melting soul owned melancholy's reign.
Plain did each action of my life appear,
Each feeling bade some fellow feeling start,
On my parched bosom fell the flowing tear,
And cooled the burning anguish of my heart.
Moments of bliss, I cried, ah! whither flown?
When Friendship breathed to me her soothing sighs,
Twice have the fields with golden harvests shone,
And still her blest return stern Fate denies!
Cynthia, thou seest me lone my course pursue,
Hopeless here roving, grief my only guide,
Evenings long past thou call'st to Fancy's view,
Forcing the tear down my pale cheek to glide.
Friendless, of love bereft, what now my joy?
Void are my heart and soul, a prey to pain,
To love, to be beloved, can never cloy,
But all on earth besides, alas! is vain!
THE LITTLE DOVE.
BY DMETRIEFF.
The little dove, with heart of sadness,
In silent pain sighs night and day,
What now can wake that heart to gladness?
His mate beloved is far away.