Zorayda to Selim. Such is the lyre which SELIM, when a child, Received with rapture from the pensive muse; Its whispers please him, though untaught and wild, But loftier tones the trembling chords refuse. O then permit him still the gentler strain, TO SELIM. Has Selim the soul which his numbers portray, While mine to his harp should respond with a sigh. If his heart truly throb to the notes of his lyre, If his feelings are justly portray'd by his muse, The Harbour of Happiness. In short, if his mind is express'd in his lays, So melting in sorrow, in rapture so warm, And his form correspond-it were rashness to gaze, The heart, unresisting, must yield to the charm. But, ah! if hypocrisy warble the strain, And the soul have no part in its magical sweets, O tell me and then ape Apollo in vain, But never emerge from thy secret retreats. THE HARBOUR OF HAPPINESS. Embark'd on the ocean of life, For Pleasure's enchanted domain Allured me from Innocence's track But her commerce, attended with pain, Soon hove all my topsails aback. On the waves of adversity tost, And plung'd in the whirlpool of care, The rudder of fortitude lost, I struck on the rocks of despair. The Harbour of Happiness. But afloat and refitted once more, No breakers or quicksands I fear, While honour stands firm at the helm; Stern Virtue the port may blockade, Then, then may the genius of love, I'll never evade it, by Jove! Nor barter in contraband ware. A Dream. A DREAM. O stay, sweet vision! lovely phantom, stay! And leave a wretch awake to real wo. And did I dream? Oh! 'twas a dream so sweet, So full of bliss, that heaven had lost its charms; And I embraced the dear delusive cheat, Then woke, and found despair within my arms. Joy's sparkling goblet seems to overflow, Her banquet now with tempting sweets appears But, ah! I wake to quaff the cup of wo, Drink deep of grief, and feast upon my tears. Where now has fled the bliss I fancied mine? Where are the forms which tempted to deceive? Vanish'd in air! but, ah! have left behind A wounded wretch, whom nothing can relieve. Is life a dream! then, messenger of peace, And let me wake to everlasting bliss. The Poplar. THE POPLAR. O green was the Poplar when, under its shade, Three years shall I wander before I return, But doom'd was my Mary another to bless, And doom'd is her lover to pine in distress; The spring soon return'd, and the Poplar was drest; But peace had for ever forsaken my breast; From the music of Nature no comfort I drew, For the birds and the streams murmur'd, Mary, adieu ! When, torn by my sorrows, I bow to my doom, |