........
Come, Jenny, let me sip the dew,
That on those coral lips doth play,
One kiss would every care subdue,
And bid my weary soul be gay.
For surely, thou wert form'd by love
To bless the suffrer's parting sigh;
In pity then, my griefs remove,
And on that bosom let me die!
THE RUNAWAY.
Ah! who is he by Cynthia's gleam
Discern'd, the statue of distress:
Weeping beside the willow'd stream
That bathes the woodland wilderness?
Why talks he to the idle air?
Why, listless, at his length reclin'd,
Heaves he the groan of deep despair,
Responsive to the midnight wind?
Speak, gentle shepherd! tell me why?
--Sir! he has lost his wife, they say--
Of what disorder did she die?
--Lord, sir! of none--she ran away.
SONG
THE BLUE-EYED MAID.
Sweet are the hours when roseate spring
With health and joy salutes the day,
When zephyr, borne on wanton wing,
Soft wispering 'wakes the blushing May:
Sweet are the hours, yet not so sweet
As when my blue-eyed maid I meet,
And hear her soul-entrancing tale,
Sequester'd in the shadowy vale.
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