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Wherever I ramble, wherever I fly,
But think not,lov'd maiden! this heart formed to change,
Or, bee-like, is customed capricious to range;
One mistress supreme in my bosom I'll own,
When Beauty wakes its sweetest power,
To bid the raptured moments fly!
'Twas thus, my Anna, by thy side
I learned to feel love's thrilling glow;. My bosom owned the swelling tide
Of extacy's empassioned flow..
''Twas from thy soft, but syren eyes,
My heart first 'caught the magic fire, That breaks its chords with struggling sighs,
And bids my quietude expire.
No artful smile, sweet girl, is thine,
No borrowed gaze the soul to lure; Thy blooming features beauteous shine
With grace un studied, sweetness pure.
I love the radiant form of truth,
The modest look I still admire;
My bosom ever will inspire.
O blame not, then, the ministrel's lay,
If love alone vibrates each string; For Beauty guides my tuneful way,
And lovely Anna bids me sing.
How sweet to view the peep of morn serene,
When vernal sweetness hangs on ev'ry blade;" When laughing pleasure frolics o'er the scene,
And richest music warbles from the shade! See, slowly rising from the azure main,
Whose glittering breast reflects his splendid blaze, The king of day begins his golden reign,
And scatters o'er the earth life's genial rays. High up the cloudless arch of heaven he climbs,
As to his noon-tide goal he bends his way; All nature with delight in chorus chimes,
And hails, with gratitude, the ripened day. Thus, when the morn of life is clear and pure,
May noon's realities our joys mature..
A FEW LINES,
SUGGESTED BY THE DEATH OF
MR. SAMUEL GILFILLAN,
STUDENT OF DIVINITY, Who died in Glasgow, January 1814, while pursuing
his Studies at the University there.
Say, ye who leave the joys of home,
native vale? 'Tis this supports us when we part From pleasures woven with our heart, And bids us fearless to defy The billowy way, or desert dry.
Too hapless youth! alas! no more
branches strews; And many a friend, for many a year, Shall nurse thy memory with a tear.