_Upon the Recovery of a Friend from a dangerous Illness_.

Sweet guardian of the rosy cheek!

Whene'er to thee I raise my hands Upon the mountain's breezy peak, Or on the yellow winding sands,

If thou hast deign'd, by Pity mov'd, This fev'rish phantom to prolong, I've touch'd my lute, for ever lov'd, And bless'd thee with its earliest song!

And oh! if in thy gentle ear Its simple notes have sounded sweet, May the soft breeze, to thee so dear, Now bear them to thy rose-wreath'd seat!

For thou hast dried the dew of grief, And Friendship feels new ecstacy: To Pollio thou hast stretch'd relief, And, raising him, hast cherish'd me.

So, whilst some treasur'd plant receives Th' admiring florist's partial show'r, The drops that tremble from its leaves Oft feed some near uncultur'd flow'r.

For late connubial Fondness hung Mute o'er the couch where Pollio lay; Love, Hope, and Sorrow, fixed her tongue, Thro' sable night till morning grey.

There, too, by drooping Pollio's side, Stood Modesty, a mourner meek, Whilst Genius, mov'd by grief and pride, Increas'd the blush which grac'd her cheek;

For much the maiden he reprov'd For having spread her veil of snow Upon the mind he form'd and lov'd, Till she was seen to mourn it too.

O Health! when thou art fled, how vain The witchery of earth and skies, Love's look, or music's sweetest strain, Or Ocean's softest lullabies!

Oh! ever hover near his bow'r, There let thy fav'rite sylphs repair; Fence it with ev'ry sweet-lipp'd flow'r, That Sickness find no entrance there.

So shall his lyre, untouch'd so long, The tone with which it charm'd regain; Sweet spirit! thou shall teach his song, With mine, to breathe the grateful strain.

AN IRISH SONG

Poor Molly O'Flannagan (Lord rest her soul!) Drank so deeply of whiskey, 'twas thought she would die; Her fond lover, Pat, from her _nate_ cabin stole, And stepp'd into Dublin to buy her a pie.

Oh! poor Molly O'Flannagan!

Tho' chin-deep in sorrow, yet fun he lov'd well; A pie-man pa.s.s'd near, crying "Pies" at his _aise_; "Here are pies of all sorts."--"Oh! if all sorts you sell, Then a _twopenny magpie_ for me, if you _plaise_!"

Oh! poor Molly O'Flannagan!

THE SONG OF GRIEF

By the walk of the willows I pour'd out my theme, The breath of the evening scarce dimpled the stream; By the waters I stood, like an image of Woe, And my tears, like the tide, seem'd to tremble and flow.

Ye green scatter'd reeds, that half lean to the wave, In your plaintive, your musical, sighs, could ye save But one note of my charmer, to soften my doom, I would stay till these willows should arch me a tomb!

For ye know, when I pour'd out my soul on the lute, How she hung down her head, so expressively mute!

From my hand she would take it, still breathing my pain; She would touch it--return it--and smile at the strain.

Ye wild blooming flow'rs, that enamel this brink, Like me could ye feel, and like me could ye think, How sadly would droop ev'ry beautiful leaf!

How soon would your sweetness be wasted with grief!

She is gone, in a cloud, like the star of the night!

She has left me, heart-broken, to mourn at her flight,-- To think of the hours she endear'd by her love.

To sigh till again I shall join her above!

LINES

UPON HEARING MISS ---- SING AT AN EVENING PARTY.

THE NIGHTINGALE'S COMPLAINT.

The Moon had bespangled the murmuring wave, The dew-drop had moisten'd the moss of the cave, The summer night-breeze, like a sigh, was just heard, When thus flow'd the strains of the dark-warbling bird:

"I hear a strange melody breathe thro' the grove, Now swelling with joy, and now melting with love; Tho' sweet is the sound, yet it should not invade, Unbidden, my lonely dominion of shade.

"As long as the stars that now twinkle shall shine, This willow's my throne, and all nature is mine: Perchance 'tis the breeze on your desolate lute; Its strings are now sighing, so long that were mute.

"Ah! no, silly bird that I am! shall I grieve?

Shall Envy alarm, and shall Folly deceive?

'Tis the voice of Eliza! I hear it again, Enraptur'd I hear it, nor envy the strain."

Then Philomel flutter'd with tremulous wing To Eliza--more happy to listen than sing!

LOVE AND THE SPRING-FLOWER.

'Tis pity, ev'ry maiden knows, Just as she cools, Love warmer grows; But, if the chill be too severe, Trust me, he'll wither in a tear.

Thus will the spring-flow'r bud and blow, Wrapp'd round in many a fold of snow; But, if an ice-wind pierce the sky, 'Twill drop upon its bed, and die!

LINES

UPON THE REV. MR. C----'S IMPROMPTU COMPOSITIONS

OF SOME OF BOWLES'S SONNETS.

No sweeter verse did e'er inspire A kindred Muse with all its fire; Nor sweeter strains could Music lend, To sooth the sorrows of her friend.