AN ELEGY TO A YOUNG LADY. YET once again, in yonder myrtle bow'rs, I weave the painted radiance of the flow'rs, Shall she, benignant, to the wond'ring eyes Of the lone hermit all her charms unfold? Or, gemm'd with dew, bid her gay florets rise To grace the rustic master of the fold ? Shall these possess her bright, her fragrant store, These snatch the wreath, by plastic Nature wove, Nor wanton summer yield one garland more To grace the bosom of the nymph I love? For For she shall come; with her each sister grace, Blithe Fancy too shall spread her glitt'ring plumes, She loves the spot where infant Genius blooms, Unless her aid the mimic queen bestow, In vain fresh garlands the low vales adorn; In vain with brighter tints the florets glow, Or dewdrops sparkle on the brow of morn. Opes not one blossom to the spicy gale, 'Throws not one elm its moss-wreath'd branches wide, Wanders no rill thro' the luxuriant vale, Or, glist'ning, rushes down the mountain side, But thither, with the morning's earliest ray, To hymn wild carols to returning day, And catch the fairest beams of orient light. Proud Proud of the theft she mounts her lucid car, Her car the rainbow's painted arch supplies; Her swift wing'd steeds unnumber'd loves prepare, An countless zephyrs waft her thro' the skies. 11 N There, while her bright wheels pause in cloudless air, Start into life beneath the potent wand. Here, proudly nodding o'er the vale below, High rocks of pearl reflect the morning ray, Whence gushing streams of azure necter flow, And tinge the trickling herbage on their way. These, cull'd from ev'ry mountain, ev'ry plain, Far off stern Boreas holds his drear domain, Nor chains the streams, nor blights the sacred bloom. Thro' all the year, in copse and tangled dale, Lone Philomel her song to Venus pours, What time pale Ev'ning spreads the dewy veil, What time the red Morn blushes on the shores. Illusive Illusive visions! O, not here,-not here, And blasts the purple daughters of the plain. So fade my promis'd joys!-fair scenes of bliss, Plung'd down and swallow'd deep in Time's abyss !— Thee, Laura, thee, by fount, or mazy stream, Oh! long of billows wild, and winds the sport, When panting, gasping, breathless, on the strand Say, shall he scorn the hospitable hand, That points to safety, liberty, and rest ? But thou, too soon forgetful of past woe, Again would'st tempt the winds, and treacherous sea; Ah! shall the raging blast forget to blow, Shall ev'ry wintry storm be hush'd for thee? Not so! I dread the elemental war, Too soon, too soon the calm, deceitful, flies; Yet let the tempest roar !-love scorns all harms, VERSES, |