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Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year? .
Delightful visitant! with thee
I hail the time of Aowers,
From birds among the bowers.
The schoolboy, wandering through the wood
To pull the primrose gay,
And imitates thy lay.
What time the pea puts on the bloom
Thou fliest thy vocal vale,
Another Spring to hail.
Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear;
No winter in thy year!,
O could I fly, I'd fly with thee!
We'd make, with joyful wing, Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Companions of the Spring.
Har. 'Tis midnight dark: 'tis silence deep, My father's house is hush'd in sleep; In dreams the lover meets his bride, She sees her lover at her side; The mourner's voice is now supprest, A while the weary are at rest : 'Tis midnight dark; 'tis silence deep; I only wake, and wake to weep.
The window's drawn, the ladder waits,
The dog howls dismal in the heath,
Hen. I come, I come, my love! my life!
My lovely bride! my consort, come!
Har. I fear to go“ I dare not stay. Look back.---I dare not look that way.
Hen. No evil ever shall betide
· Har. Still beats my bosom with alarms: I tremble while I'm in thy arms !
What will impassion'd lovers do?
Now, without father, mother, friend,
Hen. My Harriet, dissipate thy fears, And let a husband wipe thy tears; For ever join'd our fates combine, And I am yours, and you are mine. The fires the firmament that rend, On this devoted head descend, If e'er in thought from thee I rove, Or love thee less than now I love!
Although our fathers have been foes,
Two lovely roses met on high,
Har. My heart believes my love; but still My boding mind presages ill: For luckless ever was our love, Dark as the sky that hung above. While we embraced, we shook with fears, And with our kisses mingled tears; We met with murmurs and with sighs, And parted still with watery eyes.
An unforeseen and fatal hand
Hen. O do not wound that gentle breast, Nor sink, with fancied ills opprest; For softness, sweetness, all, thou art, And love is virtue in thy heart, That bosom ne'er shall heave again But to the poet's tender strain;