Volume 1 — SONG.

My Stella sleeps, the sultry hour Seals her soft eye-lids in the bower, And see, the snowy rose she wore Is fallen upon the verdant floor.

Ah Rose, thou hast fled from a throne Where thy fairness and scent are out-done, And the graces that rival thy own Thy envy has taught thee to shun. And O! since thy thorns might annoy A breast all the graces adorn, To the mansion of love and of joy, Pale Rover! thou shalt not return.

On a mount a cottage stands Half way down the sunny side, And a little vale commands Where the glassy waters glide. There ascends a curtain’d hill, From the stormy north it shields; At its foot a church and mill, Clustering hedgerows, narrow fields. Pleasant, pleasant is the scene When the spring and summer shine, Yet within that cot, I ween, Dwells a fairer love of mine. Her sweet smile a spirit pours Which, when blooming seasons fail, Lovelier makes than summer bowers Winter’s grey and naked vale.

I wake and weep, when wintry winds Are howling loud upon the lea, And louder blasts my fancy finds For William, on the foaming sea; But, calming soon the pictured storm, Sweet hopes into my bosom creep, And tell me, summer breezes warm Shall waft him safely o’er the deep. Four years, on India’s sultry coast, Has war’s rude voice my love detain’d; While here, to every pleasure lost, His Mary’s languid form remain’d; And o’er the steep rock still to lean, Still eager watch each gliding sail, That languid form is duly seen, At ruddy morn, and evening pale. But ah! no handkerchief I mark Stream from the deck in crimson dye! Dear signal! wanting thee, the bark Is hail’d by many a mournful sigh. Its shouts discordant seem to me, That echo from the stony pier, Since William’s face I cannot see, Since William’s voice I cannot hear.