'Twas a fair sight: the snow-pale infant sieeping, So fondly guardianed by those creatures mild, Watch o'er his closed eyes their bright eyes keeping: Wondrous the love betwixt the birds and child! Still as he sickened seemed the doves too dwining, His mother found it, when she rose, sad-hearted, The dove died too, as if of its heart-chill. TO MARY IN HEAVEN. The other flew to meet my sad home-riding, To my dead child and its dead mate then guiding, 'Twas my first hansel and propine to Heaven; And as I laid my darling 'neath the sod, Precious His comforts once an infant given, And offered with two turtle-doves to God! MRS. A. STUART MENTEATH. TO MARY IN HEAVEN. THOU lingering star, with lessening ray, Again thou usherest in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear, departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? That sacred hour can I forget, Can I forget the hallowed grove, TO MARY IN HEAVEN. Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past, Thy image at our last embrace: Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, Where is thy place of blissful rest? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? ROBERT BURNS. AH, CHLORIS! Aн, Chloris! that I now could sit Your infant beauty could beget When I the dawn used to admire, I little thought the growing fire Your charms in harmless childhood lay, Like metals in the mine: Age from no face took more away Than youth concealed in thine. But as your charms, insensibly, Fond love as unperceived did fly, My passion with your beauty grew; Still, as his mother favored you, Threw a new flaming dart. SIXTEEN. Each gloried in their wanton part: Employed the utmost of his art; Though now I slowly bend to love, If your fair self my chains approve Lovers, like dying men, may well Since none alive can truly tell What fortune they must see. SIXTEEN. IN Clementina's artless mien SIR CHARLES SEDLEY. Lucilla asks me what I see And are the roses of sixteen Enough for me? Lucilla asks, if that be all Have I not culled as sweet before? Ah yes, Lucilla! and their fall I still deplore. I now behold another scene, Where pleasure beams with heaven's own light |