With stern, resolv'd, despairing eye, I see each aimed dart; For one has cut my dearest tie, Then low'ring and pouring, The storm no more I dread; II. And thou, grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd, My weary heart its throbbings cease, No fear more, no tear more, To strain my lifeless face; Within thy cold embrace' LAMENT OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS, ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. Now Nature hangs her mantle green On ev'ry blooming tree, And spreads her sheets o' daisies white 1 Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams, But nought can glad the weary wight Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn The merle, in his noontide bow'r, Now blooms the lily by the bank, I was the Queen o' bonie France, And never-ending care. But as for thee, thou false woman, My sister and my fae, Grim Vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword That thro' thy soul shall gae; The weeping blood in woman's breast Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of wo My son! my son! may kinder stars And may those pleasures gild thy reign, God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, O! soon, to me, may summer-suns Wave o'er the yellow corn! Let winter round me rave! And the next flowers that deck the spring, Bloom on my peaceful grave! THE LAMENT, OCCASIONED BY THE UNFORTUNATE ISSUE OF A FRIEND'S AMOUR. Alas! how oft does Goodness wound itself, I. O THOU pale orb, that silent shines, Beneath thy wan, unwarming beam; 11. I joyless view thy rays adorn Thou busy pow'r, Remembrance, cease! Ah! must the agonizing thrill For ever bar returning peace! III. No idly-feign'd poetic pains, My sad love-lorn lamentings claim; No fabled tortures, quaint and tame, IV. Encircled in her clasping arms, How have the raptur'd moments flown! How have I wish'd for fortune's charms, For her dear sake, and hers alone! And must I think it! is she gone, My secret heart's exulting boast? And does she heedless hear my groan? And is she ever, ever lost? V. Oh! can she bear so base a heart, As from the fondest lover part, The plighted husband of her youth? Alas! life's path may be unsmooth! Her way may lie thro' rough distress; Then, who her pangs and pains will soothe, Her sorrows share, and make them less? VI. Ye winged hours that o'er us past, Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd, Your dear remembrance in my breast, My fondly-treasur'd thoughts employ'd. Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd, |