THE twentieth year is well-nigh past,
Since first our sky was overcast;
Ah would that this might be the last!
My Mary!
Thy spirits have a fainter flow,
I see thee daily weaker grow —
'Twas my distress that brought thee...
To mend each tattered Faith
There is a needle fair
Though no appearance indicate —
'Tis threaded in the Air —
And though it do not wear
As if it never Tore
'Tis very comfortable indeed
And spacious as before —
Eliza, when the southern gale
Expands the broad majestic sail,
While Friendship breathes the parting sigh,
And sorrow glitters in each eye,
The vessel leaves the flying shores,
Receding spires and less'ning tow'rs;
And as it cleaves the lucid sea,
The distant tumult dies away:...
Come and see our habitation,
condescend to be our guest;
Tho' the veins of warring nations
Bleed, yet here secure we rest.
By the light of Cynthia...
SOON shall these bounteous springs thy wish bestow,
Soon in each feature sprightly health shall glow;
Thy eyes regain their fire, thy limbs their grace,
And roses join the lilies in thy face.
But say, sweet maid, what waters can remove
The pangs of cold despair, of hopeless love?
The deadly star which...
Peggy, amidst domestic cares to rhyme
I find no pleasure, and I find no time;
But then, a Poetess, you may suppose,
Can better tell her mind in verse than prose:
True---when serenely all our moments roll,
Then numbers flow spontaneous from the soul:
Not when the mind is harrassed by cares,...
Dear Kitty, while you rove thro' sylvan bow'rs,
Inhaling fragrance from salubrious flow'rs,
Or view your blushes mant'ling in the stream,
When Luna gilds it with her amber beam;
The brazen voice of war awakes our fears,
Impearling every damask cheek with tears.
The savage, rushing down...
Yes, I invok'd the Muses' aid
To help me write, for 'tis their trade;
But only think, ungrateful Muses,
They sent dame Iris with excuses,
They'd other business for to follow,
Beg'd I'd apply to God Apollo.
The God said, as heav'n's charioteer,
He had no time to mind us here...
Dear Betsey now Pleasure the woodland has left,
Nor more in the water she laves,
Since winter the trees of their bloom has bereft,
And stiffen'd to crystal the waves....
Farewell! my fragile, flower-filled book!
I fling thee on the stream of Time,
With faltering hand and fearful soul,--
As in the Orient's sunny clime,
The maiden trims her fragrant lamp,
A tiny, faint, but Love-fed spark,
And trembling gives to doubtful waves,
Illumed and wreathed...