I LIKE not beauty's roseate brightness;
I like not beauty's sparkling eye:
Give me the cheek whose marble whiteness
Feeling's faint blush alone can dye;
Give me the pure and tranquil glance
Where no vain triumphs proudly dance,
Serene and blue as heaven's expanse ;-
Thy cheeks, thine eyes, my Mary!
I like not lips for ever smiling;
I like not speech for ever gay:
Give me the softness more beguiling
Which gently veils wit's brilliant ray;
Give me the mellow voice that tells
What sweetness in the bosom dwells;
The sigh that oft that bosom swells;-
Thy voice, thy sigh, my Mary!
No-not the eye of tender blue,
Though, Mary, 'twere the tint of thine,
Or breathing lip, of glowing hue,
Might bid the opening rose repine,
Had long enthrall'd my mind;
Nor tint with tint, alternate aiding,
That o'er the dimpled tablet flow,
The vermil to the lily fading,-
Nor ringlet bright with orient glow,
In many a tendril twined.
The breathing tint, the beamy ray,
The linear harmony divine
That o'er the form of beauty play,
Might warm a colder heart than mine,
But not for ever bind.
But when to radiant form and feature
Internal worth and feeling join,
With temper mild and gay good nature,-
Around the willing heart they twine
The empire of the mind.
OH, frown not on my daring vows,
Thou high-born maid of Inistore!
Well mayst thou claim a nobler spouse,
But, Mary, will he love thee more?
When Winter's howling storms arise,
More fondly will he clasp thee round?
Gaze with more rapture in those eyes,
Or wake the song's diviner sound?
Tell thee if proud, exalted power
Had placed him on a royal throne,
In favouring fortune's brightest hour
He'd prize her smiles for thee alone!'
Tell thee if some lone turf were given
A pillow for his weary head,
That desert spot to him were heaven,
If Mary shared his humble bed!'
Oh, frown not on my daring vows
Thou high-born maid of Inistore!
Well mayst thou claim a nobler spouse,
But, Mary, will he love thee more?
HERE'S the Vow she falsely swore,
Here's the heart she's broken-
Here's the lock she gave before,
Ah! who could doubt the token?
Her vow recorded still remains,
But where's the lip that swore it? Her ringlet still my neck enchains, But where's the brow that wore it?
Swiftly flew my hours away
When faithful Beauty prized me;
Slow has dragged the heavy day
Since faithless Love despised me.
Yet, perchance, in lonely thought
Mary's breast may languish;
'Seek the solitude I've sought,'
And share my tender anguish.
If that thought should e'er arise,
Oh! let it not distress her-
For though her injured lover dies,
His dying breath shall bless her.
Here's the vow she falsely swore,
Here's the heart she's broken-
Here's the lock she gave before,
Ah! who could doubt the token?
"TWAS not the quick and dazzling glance
That fires and overpowers the soul,
And wraps it in delirious trance,
That bow'd me to thy sweet control:
No! 'twas from eyes of heavenly blue,
A languid, tender, timid ray,
Stealing through lids of darkest hue,
That won me from myself away.
"Twas not the firm commanding voice,
Whose rapid eloquence o'erflows,
And seems at homage to rejoice,
That roused my breast from dull repose:
No! 'twas the soft and melting tones,
Like nectar dropping from thy tongue,
By which my heart thy empire owns;
Its every chord to passion strung.
And while that winning voice I hear,
And while those beaming eyes I see,
Than light or life to me more dear,
My bosom's sovereign thou must be!
WHEN far beneath the western wave the orb of day's descended,
And Twilight o'er the tired earth her dewy And all the birds, save Philomel, their warbled strains have ended, [their leafy beds; And, lull'd by whispering zephyr, sleep within
I fly the sound of human voice, the sight of human
[along, A melancholy wanderer, to rove the woods And there, while tears my eyes o'erflow, while grief my heart is swelling,
I break the silence of the night by many a mournful song!
O! ask you why alone I rove, why ceaselessly I [bids me wander so: "Tis Love that saddens all my thoughts, that But who the maid, whose magic power has fill'd my soul with anguish,
[must know. No mortal ear has ever heard, no mortal ear R. A. DAVENPORT.
THE gale breathes soft, the moon's pale beam
Light trembles on the murmuring stream;
And while her vigils Silence keeps,
From sorrow free, tired Labour sleeps;
Even the poor vagrant finds repose,
Nor thinks till morning-dawn of woes;
But I, alas! the sad night long
Awake the lute and plaintive song.
No more I strive by hardy deed
To win immortal Glory's meed-
While others snatch the palm of praise
I waste in grief the lingering days;
With pallid cheek, and sunken eye,
From all that once was lovely fly;
Tell my deep anguish to the air,
And cherish in my breast despair.
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