1

CAROLINE.

PART I

I'LL bid the hyacinth to blow,
I'll teach my grotto green to be;
And sing my true love, all below

The holly bower and myrtle tree.

There all his wild-wood sweets to bring,
The sweet south wind shall wander by,
And with the music of his wing
Delight my rustling canopy.

Come to my close and clustering bower,
Thou spirit of a milder clime,

Fresh with the dews of fruit and flower,
Of mountain heath, and moory thyme.

With all thy rural echoes come,

Sweet comrade of the rosy day, Wafting the wild bee's gentle hum, Or cuckoo's plaintive roundelay.

Where'er thy morning breath has played,
Whatever isles of occan fanned,

Come to my blossom-woven shade,

Thou wandering wind of fairy-land.

For sure from some enchanted isle,

Where Heaven and Love their sabbath hold,

Where pure and happy spirits smile,

Of beauty's fairest, brightest mould:

From some green Eden of the deep,

Where Pleasure's sigh alone is heaved, Where tears of rapture lovers weep, Endeared, undoubting, undeceived:

From some sweet paradise afar,
Thy music wanders, distant, lost —
Where Nature lights her leading star,
And love is never, never crossed.

O gentle gale of Eden bowers,

If back thy rosy feet should roam,
To revel with the cloudless Hours
In Nature's more propitious home,

Name to thy loved Elysian groves,
That o'er enchanted spirits twine,
A fairer form than cherub loves,
And let the name be CAROLINE.

CAROLINE.

PART II.

TO THE EVENING STAR.

GEM of the crimson-colored Even,
Companion of retiring day,
Why at the closing gates of Heaven,
Beloved star, dost thou delay?

So fair thy pensile beauty burns,
When soft the tear of twilight flows;

So due thy plighted love returns,
To chambers brighter than the rose:

To Peace, to Pleasure, and to Love,
So kind a star thou seem'st to be,
Sure some enamored orb above

Descends and burns to meet with thee.

Thine is the breathing, blushing hour,
When all unheavenly passions fly,
Chased by the soul-subduing power
Of Love's delicious witchery.

O! sacred to the fall of day,

Queen of propitious stars, appear, And early rise, and long delay, When Caroline herself is here!

Shine on her chosen green resort,

Whose trees the sunward summit crown, And wanton flowers, that well may court An angel's feet to tread them down.

Shine on her sweetly-scented road,

Thou star of evening's purple dome,
That lead'st the nightingale abroad,
And guid'st the pilgrim to his home.

Shine where my charmer's sweeter breath
Embalms the soft exhaling dew,
Where dying winds a sigh bequeath
To kiss the cheek of rosy hue.

Where, winnowed by the gentle air,
Her silken tresses darkly flow,

And fall upon her brow so fair,

Like shadows on the mountain snow.

Thus, ever thus, at day's decline,
In converse sweet, to wander far,
O bring with thee my Caroline,

And thou shalt be my Ruling Star!

THE BEECH-TREE'S PETITION.

O LEAVE this barren spot to me! Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! Though bush or floweret never grow My dark unwarming shade below; Nor summer bud perfume the dew Of rosy blush, or yellow hue! Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born, My green and glossy leaves adorn; Nor murmuring tribes from me derive The ambrosial amber of the hive; Yet leave this barren spot to me : Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

Thrice twenty summers I have seen The sky grow bright, the forest green; And many a wintry wind have stood In bloomless, fruitless solitude, Since childhood in my pleasant bower First spent its sweet and sportive hour; Since youthful lovers in my shade Their vows of truth and rapture made; And on my trunk's surviving frame Carved many a long-forgotten name. O! by the sighs of gentle sound, First breathed upon this sacred ground;

By all that Love has whispered here,
Or beauty heard with ravished ear;
As Love's own altar honor me:

Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

FIELD-FLOWERS.

YE field-flowers! the gardens eclipse you, 't is true, Yet, wildings of Nature, I dote upon you,

For ye waft me to summers of old,

When the earth teemed around me with fairy delight, And when daisies and buttercups gladdened my sight, Like treasures of silver and gold.

I love you for lulling me back into dreams

Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams, And of birchen glades breathing their balm, While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote, And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note Made music that sweetened the calm.

Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune

Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June: Of old ruinous castles ye tell,

Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find, When the magic of Nature first breathed on my mind, And your blossoms were part of her spell.

Even now what affections the violet awakes!
What loved little islands, twice seen in their lakes,
Can the wild water-lily restore!