Pure as their snows sweet thoughts should rise, Dear maid, of thee ;
Where'er I go, remember me !
Gently bright are Celia's eyes,
As the languid light, that lies
In the rose's heart, asleep;
Words can never paint her look,
Chaster than the moon-lit brook,
Mildly flowing to the deep.
Words from her lull half the pain
Of sickness, and call back again
Reason, by madness driv'n :
Smiling, as infants smile, sometimes,
When angels sing their cherub rhymes,
She looks a saint from heav'n.
Flora walking, t'other day,
Spied a rose-tree, in her way;
Smiling, she, with choicest care,
Cull'd the reddest flowers there ;
Then, within her snowy breast,
Lodg'd the happy, welcome guest.
'Midst such whiteness all around,
The lovely rose, in glory's crown'd;
When she deign'd to stoop her head,
Flush'd her cheeks appear'd with red ;
Struck, the rose beheld the sight,
Hung its head, and died ere night.
Whether Stella's eyes are found,
Fix'd on earth, or glancing round;
If her face with pleasure glow,
If she sigh at other's woe,-
If her easy air express
Conscious worth, or soft distress;
Stella's eyes, and air, and face,
Charm with undiminish'd grace.
If on her we see display'd
Pendant gems, and rich brocade;
If her chintz, with less expense,
Flow in easy negligence;
Still she lights the conscious flame;
Still her charms appear the saine.
If she strikes the vocal strings,-
If she's silent, speaks, or sings,-
If she sit, or if she move,
Still we love, and still approve.
Vain the casual, transient glance,
Which alone can please by chance;
Beauty, which depends on art,
Changing with the changing heart,
Which demands the toilet's aid,
Pendant gems and rich brocade ;
I those charms alone can prize,
Which from constant Nature rise,
Which nor circumstance, nor dress,
E'er can make, or more or less.
In fairest Anna's form united shine
Such ease, such grace, and majesty divine,
That each beholder might with truth declare,
Apelles' Venus was not half so fair.
But when good humour, judgment, wit, and sense,
Her graceful lips, with modesty, dispense;
Each hearer owns, with pleasure and surprise,
That Homer's Pallas was not half so wise.
THE LADY'S LOOKING-GLASS.
Celia and I the other day
Walk'd o'er the sand-hills to the sea;
The setting sun adorn'd the coast,
His beams entire, his fierceness lost;
And, on the surface of the deep,
The wind lay only not asleep.
The nymph did like the sea appear,
Serenely pleasant, calmly fair;
Soft fell her words as flew the air.
With secret joy I heard her say,
That she would never miss one day
A walk so fine, a sight so gay.
But, Oh, the change! the winds grew high,
Impending tempests charge the sky,
The lightning flies, the thunder roars,
And big waves lash the frightened shores !
Struck with the horrors of the sight,
She turns her head and wings her flight,
And, trembling, vows, she'll ne'er again
Approach the shore, or view the main.
Once more, at least, look back, said I,
Thyself in that large glass descry;
When thou art in good humour drest,
When gentle reason rules the breast,
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