WHEN bright Roxana treads the green
In all the pride of dress and mien,
Averse to freedom, love, and play,
The dazzling rival of the day;
None other beauty strikes mine eye,
The lilies droop, the roses die.
But when, disclaiming art, the fair
Assumes a soft engaging air,
Mild as the opening morn of May,
Familiar, friendly, free, and gay,
The scene improves where'er she goes,
More sweetly smile the pink and rose.
O lovely maid! propitious hear,
Nor deem thy shepherd insincere;
Pity a wild illusive flame,
That varies objects still the same,
And let their very changes prove
The never varied force of love.
"TIS said that under distant skies
What first attracts an Indian's eyes
Becomes his deity.
Perhaps a lily or a rose,
That shares the morning's ray,
May to the waking swain disclose
The regent of the day.
Perhaps a plant in yonder grove,
Enrich'd with fragrant power,
May tempt his vagrant eyes to rove
Where blooms the sovereign flower.
Perch'd on the cedar's topmost bough,
And gay with gilded wings,
Perchance, the patron of his vow,
Some artless linnet sings.
The swain surveys her pleased, afraid,
Then low to Earth he bends,
And owns upon her friendly aid
His health, his life, depends.
Vain futile idols, bird, or flower,
To tempt a votary's prayer!
How would his humble homage tower
Should he behold my
fair!
Yes-might the Pagan's waking eyes O'er Flavia's beauty range,
He there would fix his lasting choice, Nor dare nor wish to change.
THE fatal hours are wondrous near,
That from these fountains bear my dear;
A little space is given in vain ;
She robs my sight, and shuns the plain.
A little space for me to prove
My boundless flame, my endless love;
And, like the train of vulgar hours,
Invidious Time that space devours.
Near yonder beach is Delia's way,
On that I gaze the livelong day;
No eastern monarch's dazzling pride
Should draw my longing eyes aside.
The chief that knows of succours nigh,
And sees his mangled legions die,
Casts not a more impatient glance,
To see the loitering aids advance.
Not more the school-boy, that expires
Far from his native home, requires
To see some friend's familiar face,
Or meet a parent's last embrace-
She comes-but, ah! what crowds of beaux
In radiant bands my fair enclose!
Oh! better hadst thou shunn'd the green;
Oh, Delia! better far unseen.
Methinks, by all my tender fears,
By all my sighs, by all my tears,
I might from torture now be free-
'Tis more than death to part from thee!
THE lovely Delia smiles again!
That killing frown has left her brow;
Can she forgive my jealous pain,
And give me back my angry vow?
Love is an April's doubtful day;
A while we see the tempest lower,
Anon the radiant Heaven survey,
And quite forget the flitting shower.
The flowers, that hung their languid head,
Are burnish'd by the transient rains;
The vines their wonted tendrils spread,
And double verdure gilds the plains.
The spritely birds, that droop'd no less
Beneath the power of rain and wind,
In every raptured note express
The joy I feel when thou art kind.
PERHAPS it is not love, said I,
That melts my soul when Flavia's nigh:
Where wit and sense like hers agree,
One may be pleased, and yet be free.
The beauties of her polish'd mind
It needs no lover's eye to find;
The hermit freezing in his cell
Might wish the gentle Flavia well.
It is not love-averse to bear
The servile chain that lovers wear;
Let, let me all my fears remove,
My doubts dispel-it is not love.
Oh! when did wit so brightly shine
In any form less fair than thine?
It is- -it is Love's subtle fire,
And under friendship lurks desire,
O'ER desert plains, and rushy meers,
And wither'd heaths I rove;
Where tree, nor spire, nor cot appears,
I pass to meet my love.
But though my path were damask'd o'er
With beauties e'er so fine,
My busy thoughts would fly before
To fix alone-on thine.
Nor fir-crown'd hills could give delight,
No palace please mine eye;
No pyramid's aerial height,
Where mouldering monarchs lie.
Unmoved should eastern kings advance,
Could I the pageant see;
Splendour might catch one scornful glance,
Not steal one thought from thee.
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