Tho’ chin-deep in sorrow, yet fun he lov’d well; A pie-man pass’d near, crying “Pies” at his _aise_; “Here are pies of all sorts.”—“Oh! if all sorts you sell, Then a _twopenny magpie_ for me, if you _plaise_!” Oh! poor Molly O’Flannagan!
By the walk of the willows I pour’d out my theme, The breath of the evening scarce dimpled the stream; By the waters I stood, like an image of Woe, And my tears, like the tide, seem’d to tremble and flow.
Ye green scatter’d reeds, that half lean to the wave, In your plaintive, your musical, sighs, could ye save But one note of my charmer, to soften my doom, I would stay till these willows should arch me a tomb!
For ye know, when I pour’d out my soul on the lute, How she hung down her head, so expressively mute! From my hand she would take it, still breathing my pain; She would touch it—return it—and smile at the strain.
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!
UPON HEARING MISS —— SING AT AN EVENING PARTY.
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!
’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.