5 When howling winds, and beating rain, In tempests shake the sylvan cell; Or 'midst the chase on every plain, The tender thought on thee shall dwell; 6 Each lonely scene shall thee restore, VERSES WRITTEN ON A PAPER WHICH CONTAINED A PIECE OF BRIDECAKE GIVEN TO THE AUTHOR BY A LADY. 1 YE curious hands, that, hid from vulgar eyes, 2 This precious relic, form'd by magic power, Beneath the shepherd's haunted pillow laid, Was meant by love to charm the silent hour, The secret present of a matchless maid. 3 The Cyprian queen, at Hymen's fond request, Each nice ingredient chose with happiest art; Fears, sighs, and wishes, of th' enamour'd breast, And pains that please, are mix'd in every part. 4 With rosy hand the spicy fruit she brought, From Paphian hills, and fair Cythera's isle; And temper'd sweet with these the melting thought, The kiss ambrosial, and the yielding smile. 5 Ambiguous looks, that scorn and yet relent, Denials mild, and firm unalter'd truth, Reluctant pride, and amorous faint consent, And meeting ardours, and exulting youth. 6 Sleep, wayward god! hath sworn, while these remain, With flattering dreams to dry his nightly tear, And cheerful Hope, so oft invoked in vain, 7 If, bound by vows to Friendship's gentle side, And fond of soul, thou hopest an equal grace, If youth or maid thy joys and griefs divide, Oh, much entreated, leave this fatal place! 8 Sweet Peace, who long hath shunn'd my plaintive day, SONG, THE SENTIMENTS BORROWED FROM SHAKSPEARE. 1 YOUNG Damon of the vale is dead, Ye lowly hamlets, moan; A dewy turf lies o'er his head, And at his feet a stone. 2 His shroud, which Death's cold damps destroy, Of snow-white threads was made: All mourn'd to see so sweet a boy 3 Pale pansies o'er his corpse were placed, 4 But will he ne'er return, whose tongue 5 They bore him out at twilight hour, Ah me! how many a true-love shower 6 Each maid was woe-but Lucy chief, TO MISS AURELIA C-R, ON HER WEEPING AT HER SISTER'S WEDDING. CEASE, fair Aurelia, cease to mourn, And seize the treasure you regret. SONNET. WHEN Phoebe form'd a wanton smile, Before a rising tear! From 'midst the drops, my love is born, END OF COLLINS' POEMS. |