ON READING "THE SORROWS OF WERTER." THY Soft-wrought sorrows, Werter, while I view, Ibid. AN EXPOSTULATION. WHEN late I attempted your pity to move VERSES Written on the blank leaf of a book in which a Lady had made a Selection of Poems. WHILST health and youth lead on the sprightly hours, How sweet through fancy's flowery fields to stray, Catch the wild notes inventive genius pours, And stamp on lasting leaves the genuine lay! Nor think those hours to trivial cares consign'd Bid the freed soul the grov'ling crew despise, Bid the freed soul to nobler prospects rise, V. INSCRIPTION ON A HERMITAGE In one of the Islands of the West Indies. WITHIN this rural cot I rest, Soft friendship's mutual sweets to prove, Nor envy pow'r and empty state. No thoughtless mortals here invade The sacred limits of this glade; No busy footsteps here are seen To print the flow'r-enamell'd green; But, far remov'd from pomp and noise, No care my happiness destroys; Save when the lov'd idea reigns Of distant Albion's blissful plains, Far, far remov'd, perhaps no more Destin'd to hail my natal shore : (Perhaps, Horatio, thy dear form No more these languid eyes may charm, No more this faithful bosom warm!) Here, safe in this sequester'd vale, The stock-doves pour their tender tale; Here too the peaceful halcyons rest, And weave secure their quiet nest; Or sportive now, on azure wing, Flutter in many an aëry ring; Expanding, gorgeous, as they fly, Their saphire plumage to the sky. Soon as Aurora wakes the dawn, At noon, reclin'd in yonder glade, Panting beneath the tam'rind's shade, Or where the palm-tree's nodding head Guards from the sun my verdant bed, I quaff, to slake my thirsty soul, The cocoa's full nectareous bowl. At eve, beneath some spreading tree I read the inspir'd poesy Of Milton, Pope, or Spencer mild, And Shakespeare, fancy's brightest child: To tender Sterne I lend an ear, 'Tis thus the circling year is spent Maria Riddell, aged 16. ODE TO A FOUNTAIN. SEQUESTER'D Fountain, ever pure, Whose smooth meand'ring rill Tir'd with ambition's fruitless strife, To shape my course by thine, A votive wreath I twine. |