At each response the sacred rite requires, From her full bosom bursts the unbidden sigh. A strange mysterious awe the scene inspires; And on her lips the trembling accents die. O’er her fair face what wild emotions play! What lights and shades in sweet confusion blend! Soon shall they fly, glad harbingers of day, And settled sunshine on her soul descend! Ah soon, thine own confest, ecstatic thought! That hand shall strew thy summer-path with flowers; And those blue eyes, with mildest lustre fraught, Gild the calm current of domestic hours! THE ALPS AT DAY-BREAK. The sun-beams streak the azure skies, And line with light the mountain’s brow: With hounds and horns the hunters rise, And chase the roebuck thro’ the snow. From rock to rock, with giant-bound, High on their iron poles they pass; Mute, lest the air, convuls’d by sound, Rend from above a frozen mass.[1] The goats wind slow their wonted way, Up craggy steeps and ridges rude; Mark’d by the wild wolf for his prey, From desert cave or hanging wood. And while the torrent thunders loud, And as the echoing cliffs reply, The huts peep o’er the morning-cloud, Perch’d, like an eagle’s nest, on high. [1] There are passes in the Alps, where the guides tell you to move on with speed, and say nothing, lest the agitation of the air should loosen the snows above. GRAY’S MEM. sect. v. lett.4. IMITATION OF AN ITALIAN SONNET[1] Love, under Friendship’s vesture white, Laughs, his little limbs concealing; And oft in sport, and oft in spite, Like Pity meets the dazzled sight, Smiles thro’ his tears revealing. But now as Rage the God appears! He frowns, and tempests shake his frame!— Frowning, or smiling, or in tears, ’Tis Love; and Love is still the same. [1] See Gray’s Mem. sect. II. lett. 30. ON - - - - ASLEEP. Sleep on, and dream of Heav’n awhile. Tho’ shut so close thy laughing eyes, Thy rosy lips still seem to smile, And move, and breathe delicious sighs!— Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks, And mantle o’er her neck of snow. Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks What most I wish—and fear to know. She starts, she trembles, and she weeps! Her fair hands folded on her breast. —And now, how like a saint she sleeps! A seraph in the realms of rest! Sleep on secure! Above controul, Thy thoughts belong to Heav’n and thee! And may the secret of thy soul Repose within its sanctuary! TO THE YOUNGEST DAUGHTER OF LADY **. Ah! why with tell-tale tongue reveal What most her blushes would conceal?[1] Why lift that modest veil to trace The seraph-sweetness of her face? Some fairer, better sport prefer; And feel for us, if not for her. For this presumption, soon or late, Know thine shall be a kindred fate. Another shall in vengeance rise— Sing Harriet’s cheeks, and Harriet’s eyes; And, echoing back her wood-notes wild, —Trace all the mother in the child! [1] Alluding to some verses which she had written on an elder sister. AN EPITAPH[1] ON A ROBIN-REDBREAST.