Ye fair associates of my opening bloom, Oh think how quick my foul career I ran, J. W. ADDRESS TO ENTERPRIZE. BY A TRAVELLER. ON lofty mountains roaming And raging north winds blow; There, at the peep of morning, Wild weeds her brows adorning, While keen-ey'd Expectation See panting Emulation Her fleeting steps pursue. List! list! celestial Virgin, I pledge this solemn word- Or midst the darksome wonders Where, bright in matchless lustre, And midst the beauteous cluster In every varied station, Whate'er my fate may be, My hope, my exultation, Is still to follow thee. When age, with sickness blended, Then oft, in visions fleeting, And tell a joyful story Of some new world of bliss, Eclipsing all the glory Thou promis'd him in this. RHADEGUNDA. EDWIN AND LUCY. A BALLAD. "O! who is she, with haggard eye, That scales the airy steep, Oft as the silver star of eve "That with unweary'd step ascends The promontory's height, Oft as the melancholy main Reflects the lunar light; "And there, to winds that murmur low, That sings so sadly sweet, And still her toiling eye-balls strains The gliding sail to meet?" O! wonder not, that, stranger there, And mark the lovely Maniac stand, Hark! to the story of her woe, "Can winds, with envy fraught and hate, "Ye stars, that gem the brow of night, Or hide your orbs in clouds, or bathe "Shine forth, in all your splendour bright, To guide him on his way, Nor, with malignant influence fraught, "And thou, pale moon, that travell'st far, Thy friendly light bestow, For thou wert witness to his love, His tears, and parting vow. "For him, ye sea-nymphs, cease to pour Your wildly-warbled strains, "What shades incline my love to stay? Or hide him from my view? Art thou the sport of wayward fate? "Hast thou forgot thy plighted vows? And Lucy lost her charms? And not a thought of other days Thy raptur'd bosom warms? "Though with the smiling cherub, Peace, My waning beauty flew, "Alas! 'tis all for thee, that grief "For thee, that to the mercy-seat The day is seen through clouds of woe, "For thee, that with the sun she climbs The promontory's height, And lingers there till ocean's wave Long shall she stray these haunts among, That bark shall ne'er return, for which The youth for whom she breathes the sigh, Now sleeps the long-long sleep of death, Beneath the roaring main! Poor child of grief! didst thou not weep? Did not thy bosom bleed? Till Reason fled thy fever'd brain, And left thee poor indeed! |