So fair thy pensile beauty burns, When soft the tear of twilight flows; So due thy plighted love returns, To chambers brighter than the rose, To Peace, to Pleasure, and to Love, So kind a star thou seem’st to be, Sure some enamoured orb above Descends and burns to meet with thee. Thine is the breathing, blushing hour, When all unheavenly passions fly, Chased by the soul-subduing power Of Love’s delicious witchery. O! sacred to the fall of day, Queen of propitious stars appear, And early rise and long delay, When Caroline herself is here! Shine on her chosen green resort, Whose trees the sunward summit crown, And wanton flowers that well may court An angel’s feet to tread them down. Shine on her sweetly-scented road, Thou star of evening’s purple dome, That lead’st the nightingale abroad, And guid’st the pilgrim to his home. Shine, where my charmer’s sweeter breath Embalms the soft exhaling dew, Where dying winds a sigh bequeath To kiss the cheek of rosy hue. Where, winnowed by the gentle air, Her silken tresses darkly flow, And fall upon her brow so fair, Like shadows on the mountain snow. Thus, ever thus, at day’s decline, In converse sweet, to wander far, O bring with thee my Caroline, And thou shalt be my ruling star! FIELD FLOWERS. Ye field flowers! the gardens eclipse you ’tis true, Yet, wildings of nature I dote upon you, For ye waft me to summers of old, When the earth teemed around me with faery delight, And when daisies and buttercups gladdened my sight, Like treasures of silver and gold. I love you for lulling me back into dreams Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams, And of birchen glades breathing their balm, While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote, And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon’s note, Made music that sweetened the calm. Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June: Of old ruinous castles ye tell, Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find, When the magic of Nature first breathed on my mind, And your blossoms were part of her spell. E’en now what affections the violet awakes; What loved little islands twice seen in their lakes, Can the wild water-lily restore; What landscapes I read in the primrose’s looks, And what pictures of pebbled and minnowy brooks In the vetches that tangled their shore. Earth’s cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear, Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear Had scathed my existence’s bloom; Once I welcome you more in life’s passionless stage, With the visions of youth to revisit my age, And I wish you to grow on my tomb. LINES ON THE VIEW FROM ST. LEONARD’S.