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Those babies that nestle so sly

Such thousands of arrows have got, That an oath, on the glance of an eye

Such as yours, may be off in a shot.

Still, my belov'd! still keep in mind,

However far remov'd from me, That there is one thou leav'st behind,

Whose heart respires for only thee !

And though ungenial ties have bound

Thy fate unto another's care, That arm, which clasps thy bosom round,

Cannot confine the heart that's there.

Should I swear by the dew on your lip,

Though each moment the treasure renews, If my constancy wishes to trip,

I may kiss off the oath when I choose. Or a sigh may disperse from that flow'r

Both the dew and the oath that are there ; And I'd make a new vow every hour,

To lose them so sweetly in air.
But clear up the heav'n of your brow,

Nor fancy my faith is a feather ;
On my heart I will pledge you my vow,

And they both must be broken together !

No, no ! that heart is only mine

By ties all other ties above, For I have wed it at a shrine

Where we have had no priest but Love.

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eyes ?

A TALE OF ROMANCE.

Must Rose, then, from Reuben so fatally sever ? SONG.

Sad, sad were the words of the Seer of the Cave,

That darkness should cover that castle for ever, Have you not seen the timid tear,

Or Reuben be sunk in the merciless wave! Steal trembling from mine eye ? Have you not mark’d the flush of fear,

To the wizard she flew, saying, “ Tell me, oh, tell ! Or caught the murmur'd sigh ? And can you think my love is chill,

Shall my Reuben no more be restor’d to my Nor fix'd on you alone ? And can you rend, by doubting still,

Yes, yes — when a spirit shall toll the great bell A heart so much your own ?

Of the mould'ring abbey, your Reuben shall

rise !" To you my soul's affections move, Devoutly, warmly true ;

Twice, thrice he repeated “ Your Reuben shall

rise !" My life has been a task of love, One long, long thought of you.

And Rose felt a moment's release from her pain; If all your tender faith be o'er,

And wip'd, while she listen'd, the tears from her If still my truth you'll try ;

eyes, Alas, I know but one proof more —

And hop'd she might yet see her hero again. I'll bless your name, and die !

That hero could smile at the terrors of death,

When he felt that he died for the sire of his Rose; To the Oder he flew, and there, plunging beneath,

In the depth of the billows soon found his reREUBEN AND ROSE.

pose. —

How strangely the order of destiny falls ! – The darkness that hung upon Willumberg's walls when a sunbeam was seen to glance over the walls,

Not long in the waters the warrior lay, Had long been remember'd with awe and dismay;

And the castle of Willumberg bask'd in the ray! For years not a sunbeam had play'd in its halls,

And it seem'd as shut out from the regions of day. All, all but the soul of the maid was in light, Though the valleys were brighten’d by many a

There sorrow and terror lay gloomy and blank : beam,

Two days did she wander, and all the long night, Yet none could the woods of that castle illume ;

In quest of her love, on the wide river's bank. And the lightning, which flash'd on the neighbouring stream,

Oft, oft did she pause for the toll of the bell, Flew back, as if fearing to enter the gloom !

And heard but the breathings of night in the air ;

Long, long did she gaze on the watery swell, * Oh! when shall this horrible darkness disperse !”

And saw but the foam of the white billow there. Said Willamberg's lord to the Seer of the Cave;• It can never dispel,” said the wizard of verse,

And often as midnight its veil would undraw, " Till the bright star of chivalry sinks in the

As she look'd at the light of the moon in the wave!”

stream,

She thought 'twas his helmet of silver she saw, And who was the bright star of chivalry then ? As the curl of the surge glitter'd high in the Who could be but Reuben, the flow'r of the age?

beam. For Reuben was first in the combat of men, Though Youth had scarce written his name on And now the third night was begemming the sky;

Poor Rose, on the cold dewy margent reclin'd, There wept till the tear almost froze in her

eye, For Willumberg's daughter his young heart bad When – hark ! - 'twas the bell that came deep beat, —

in the wind ! For Rose, who was bright as the spirit of dawn, When with wand dropping diamonds, and silvery She startled, and saw, through the glimmering feet,

shade, It walks o'er the flow'rs of the mountain and lawn. A form o'er the waters in majesty glide ;

her page.

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1 This alludes to a curious gem, upon which Claudian has as this that I saw at Vendôme in France, which they there left us some very elaborate epigrams. It was a drop of pure pretend is a tear that our Saviour shed over Lazarus, and was water enclosed within a piece of crystal. See Claudian. Epi- gathered up by an angel, who put it into a little crystal vial, gram. "de Crystallo cui aqua inerat.” Addison mentions a and made a present of it to Mary Magdalen." - Addison's curiosity of this kind at Milan; and adds, “ It is such a rarity Remarks on several Parts of Italy.

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THE SHRINE.

TO

IN ALLUSION TO SOME ILLIBERAL CRITICISMS.
Why, let the stingless critic chide
With all that fume of vacant pride
Which mantles o'er the pedant fool,
Like vapour on a stagnant pool.
Oh! if the song, to feeling true,
Can please th' elect, the sacred few,
Whose souls, by Taste and Nature taught,
Thrill with the genuine pulse of thought -
If some fond feeling maid like thee,
The warm-ey'd child of Sympathy,
Shall say, while o'er my simple theme
She languishes in Passion's dream,
“ He was, indeed, a tender soul
“ No critic law, no chill control,
“ Should ever freeze, by timid art,
" The flowings of so fond a heart!”
Yes, soul of Nature! soul of Love!
That, hov'ring like a snow-wing'd dove,
Breath'd o'er my cradle warblings wild,
And hail'd me Passion's warmest child,
Grant me the tear from Beauty's eye,
From Feeling's breast the votive sigh;
Oh! let my song, my mem’ry, find
A shrine within the tender mind ;
And I will smile when critics chide,
And I will scorn the fume of pride
Which mantles o'er the pedant fool,
Like vapour round some stagnant pool !

My fates had destin'd me to rove
A long, long pilgrimage of love;
And many an altar on my way
Has lur'd my pious steps to stay ;
For, if the saint was young and fair,
I turn'd and sung my vespers there.
This, from a youthful pilgrim's fire,
Is what your pretty saints require :
To pass, nor tell a single bead,
With them would be profane indeed !
But, trust me, all this young devotion
Was but to keep my zeal in motion ;
And, ev'ry humbler altar past,
I now have reach'd THE SHRINE at last !

TO A LADY,

WITH SOME MANUSCRIPT POEMS,

ON LEAVING TAE COUNTRY.

When, casting many a look behind,

I leave the friends I cherish here Perchance some other friends to find,

But surely finding none so dear

Haply the little simple page,

Which votive thus I've trac'd for thee, May now and then a look engage,

And steal one moment's thought for me.

TO JULIA.

Mock me no more with Love's beguiling dream,

A dream, I find, illusory as sweet :
One smile of friendship, nay, of cold esteem,

Far dearer were than passion's bland deceit!

But, oh! in pity let not those

Whose hearts are not of gentle mould, Let not the eye that seldom flows

With feeling's tear, my song behold.

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But must we, must we part indeed ?

Is all our dream of rapture over ? And does not Julia's bosom bleed

To leave so dear, so fond a lover ?

Does she too mourn? – Perhaps she may ;

Perhaps she mourns our bliss so fleeting : But why is Julia's eye so gay,

If Julia's heart like mine is beating? I oft have lov'd that sunny glow

Of gladness in her blue eye gleaming But can the bosom bleed with woe,

While joy is in the glances beaming?

In vain we fondly strive to trace
The soul's reflection in the face ;
In vain we dwell on lines and crosses,
Crooked mouth, or short proboscis ;
Boobies have look'd as wise and bright
As Plato or the Stagirite :
And many a sage and learned skull
Has peep'd through windows dark and dull.
Since then, though art do all it can,
We ne'er can reach the inward man,
Nor (howsoe'er “ learn'd Thebans ” doubt)
The inward woman, from without,
Methinks 'twere well if Nature could
(And Nature could, if Nature would)
Some pithy, short descriptions write,
On tablets large, in black and white,
Which she might hang about our throttles,
Like labels upon physic-bottles ;
And where all men might read — but stay
As dialectic sages say,
The argument most apt and ample
For common use is the example.

No, no! - Yet, love, I will not chide ;

Although your heart were fond of roving, Nor that, nor all the world beside

Could keep your faithful boy from loving.

You'll soon be distant from his eye,

And, with you, all that's worth possessing. Oh! then it will be sweet to die,

When life has lost its only blessing!

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