LEANDER, Or the Sorrows of REFLECTION, an ELEGY

Serene the eve, the sun's withdrawn his light, Luna has risen with her twinkling train, The whirring bat, now wheels his rapid flight, Hush'd is the breeze that whisper'd o'er the plain.

Hush'd is the warblings of the tuneful grove, The chearful birds, have sought their downy nest, Sad sorrow takes her lone retired rove, To soothe the anguish of the pensive breast.

Lo! from yon spacious building's porch descends The old Leander, with his locks of snow, His tottering steps toward yon bank he bends, Where spacious Hudson murm'ring glides below.

See now the verdant, well known bank he gains, And slowly leans beneath an aged oak, While heavy sighs breath forth his inward pains, Thus the old Sire in plaintive accents spoke.

Ah! poor old man, no more shall PLEASURE glow, Or seek adobe within thy anguish'd mind, She'll lend no smile to soothe the pangs of woe, Still will REFLECTION cast her looks behind.

Still will she trace long past, and recent scenes, And paint the dread events before my view, Still will she haunt me in my midnight dreams, And poor Leander ever will pursue.

No more shall music sound the note of joy, No more shall rural sports their pleasure give, Nomore shall Mira my pleas'd thoughts employ, And bid her cruel wretched father live.

Ceas'd is that voice, which once was Music's sound, No more on me its soft vibration flows, Clos'd is that eye, which shed fond joy around, Stop'd is that breath, sweet as the breeze which blows.

Yonder my Mira rests her slumb'ring head, Where grow those gloomy melancholy trees, They o'er her grave an awful shadow spread, And gently quiver with the passing breeze.

'Twas you my Mira sooth'd declining years, 'Twas you that bid joy sparkle in my eye, That wip'd the widow's and the orphan's tears, and eas'd the bosom of the heaving sigh.

And O how lovely, how divinely fair Was the soft tincture of thy charming face, In floating ringlets wav'd thy auburn hair, Thy form was beauty, polish'd into grace.

I thought my Mira, you these eyes would close, And drop a tear upon my aged tomb, That o'er my grave, you'd lead the briery rose, And plant the willow, with its pensive gloom.

But ah! these hopes for ever now are fled, And who but I, a cruel wretch to blame, Pity no more thy gentle sorrow shed? 'Twas I that sported with the lover's flame.

The graceful Henry in the pride of youth Beheld my Mira, with a rising sigh, His form was noble, and his breast was truth, A liquid light'ning darted from his eye.

The beauteous maid his tender flame return'd, Love in each breast assum'd its genial reign, Pure and sincere, their gentle passions burn'd, Rambling together, oft they trip'd the plain.

Here oft beneath this spreading tree they've stood, The distant prospects all around survey'd, They've view'd the smoothness of the passing flood, And sought the whisp'ring and the cooling shade.

Oft they have listen'd to the joyful song, While pleasure ting'd each face with rosy hues, Oft in the Eve, the vales they've rov'd along When Nature, slow distill'd her moist'ning dews.

Devoid of art, and of deceitful guile Of all the triflings of the haughty maid, To each fond face they lent the pleasing smile, No thoughts of sorrow their sooth'd breasts invade.

I saw their love, with anger, and with pain, For gold nor fortune was her Henry's lot, He join'd not in their routs, the giddy train, But peace and plenty crown'd his humble cot.

I bade the modest youth with furious voice, To flee my house, and shun fair Mira's face; No more within her cheering smiles rejoice, Nor seek her blooming and her soft embrace.

With downcast eyes he hears my dread commands, The roses flee his round and manly cheek, No word he says, but in sad anguish stands, Then flow retires, but ne'er attempts to speak.

He casts behind a ling'ring parting view, The throbbing, bursting sigh his bosom heaves, At length his steps a winding path pursue, He sinks from sight behind those spreading trees.

No gentle pity my hard bosom feels For wretched Henry's parting pangs and grief, No gentle wish upon my bosom steals To ease his suff'ring, and afford relief.

But ah! how soon did I repent the deed When past, and gone, to be recall'd too late? How did my breast for mourning Mira bleed, How did I curse Leander's hapless fate?

The graceful Henry now no more return'd, To cheer and bless his lovely Mira's mind, Drooping in silence, her fond passion burn'd, For her lov'd youth in solitude she pin'd.

No more in smiles her beauteous face she dress'd, But pensive glooms, now occupied their place, No more when I the lively maid address'd, Shone the soft lustre of her charming face.

Always she strove to shun my anxious sight, Often she wander'd o'er the flow'ry vale; Often she sought the doleful shades of night To pour unheard, her melancholy tale.

She mourns her Henry cloth'd in sable weeds, Gradual the flame her lovely form consumes; No tears from her dim languid eye proceeds, No more sweet freshness on her aspect blooms.

At last she sunk within the shades of death Which still'd the tumult of her anguish'd breast, Her Henry, quiver'd on her dying breath, His name flew with her to the shades of death.

Of youthful Henry I have heard no more, Perhaps he's also sought the silent grave, Cease flowing Hudson! cease your murm'ring roar! Perhaps he's buried in your cruel wave.

There no more angry words, disdainful pride, Will reach thy modest and attentive ear, No more I'll snatch thee from thy blooming bride, Or call upon thy cheek the trembling tear.

Leander ceas'd; and feebly from his seat With faultring, and with trembling limbs arose, Towards his dome, he bends his ploading feet, Reflection still, re-numerates his woes.