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.

Associate Genius bids them flow
With sounds that give a charm to woe;
We weep as tho’ it were our own,
As if our hearts were play’d upon.

SONNET.

The leaves are flutter’d by no tell-tale gales,
  Clear melts the azure in the rosy west,
Scarce heard, the river winds along the vales,
  And Eve has lull’d the vocal grove to rest.

To yon thick elms, my Delia! let us rove,
  As slow the glories of the day retire;
There to thy lute breathe dulcet notes of love,
  While thro’ the vale they linger and expire.

Those honey’d tones, that melt upon the tongue,—­
  Thy looks, serener than the scenes I sing,—­
Thy chaste desires, which angels might have sung,
  Alone can quiet in this bosom bring,
Which burns for thee, and, kindled by thine eyes,
  Bears a pure flame—­the flame that never dies!