'Tis sweet to think, that, where'er we rove, We are sure to find something blissful and dear. And that, when we're far from the lips we love, We've but to make love to the lips, we are near....
'Tis the last rose of summer Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone; No flower of her kindred, No rose-bud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes,...
To be the theme of every hour The heart devotes to Fancy's power, When her prompt magic fills the mind With friends and joys we've left behind, And joys return and friends are near,...
Thy song has taught my heart to feel Those soothing thoughts of heavenly love, Which o'er the sainted spirits steal When listening to the spheres above!
When midnight came to close the year, We sighed to think it thus should take The hours it gave us--hours as dear As sympathy and love could make Their blessed moments,--every sun...
When I would sing thy beauty's light, Such various forms, and all so bright, I've seen thee, from thy childhood, wear, I know not which to call most fair,...
I could resign that eye of blue. How e'er its splendor used to thrill me; And even that cheek of roseate hue,-- To lose it, Cloe, scarce would kill me.
To-day, dearest! is ours; Why should Love carelessly lose it? This life shines or lowers Just as we, weak mortals, use it. 'Tis time enough, when its flowers decay, To think of the thorns of Sorrow...
Oh, what a sea of storm we've past!-- High mountain waves and foamy showers, And battling winds whose savage blast But ill agrees with one whose hours...
This life, dear Corry, who can doubt?-- Resembles much friend Ewart's[1] wine, When first the rosy drops come out, How beautiful, how clear they shine!...