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DEATH OF A LADY.
SWEET spirit! if thy airy sleep
Nor sees my tears nor hears my sighs, Then will I weep, in anguish weep,
Till the last heart's drop fills mine eyes. But if thy sainted soul can feel,
And mingles in our misery;
The beam of morn was on the stream,
Thou wert not form'd for living here,
So link'd thy soul was with the sky;
Yet, ah, we held thee all so dear,
We thought thou wert not form'd to die.
Along the rocks of Crissa's shore,
In holy musings shall we roam,
By nature warm'd and led by thee, In every breeze was taught to feel The breathings of a Deity. Guide of my heart! still hovering round, Thy looks, thy words are still my ownI see thee raising from the ground
Some laurel, by the winds o'erthrown, And hear thee say, "This humble bough "Was planted for a doom divine;
All that the young should feel and know,
Fond sharer of my infant joy,
Is not thy shade still ling'ring here?
When, meeting on the sacred mount,
My foot the lightest o'er the green : So still, each look and step to mould, Thy guardian care is round me spread, Arranging every snowy fold,
And guiding every mazy tread. And, when I lead the hymning choir, Thy spirit still, unseen and free, Hovers between my lip and lyre,
And weds them into harmony.
Flow, Plistus, flow, thy murmuring wave
Shall never drop its silv'ry tear
Upon so pure, so blest a grave,
1 The laurel, for the common uses of the temple, for adorn ing the altars and sweeping the pavement, was supplied by a tree near the fountain of Castalia; but upon all important occasions, they sent to Tempé for their laurel. We find, in Pausanias, that this valley supplied the branches, of which
LOVE AND MARRIAGE. Eque brevi verbo ferre perenne malum.
SECUNDUS, eleg. vii.
STILL the question I must parry,
Still a wayward truant prove: Where I love, I must not marry ; Where I marry, cannot love.
Were she fairest of creation,
With the least presuming mind;
Wise enough, but never rigid;
Were she all this ten times over,
Love will never bear enslaving;
Summer garments suit him best; Bliss itself is not worth having, If we're by compulsion blest.
I FILL'D to thee, to thee I drank,
At length I bid an artist paint
Thy image in this ample cup, That I might see the dimpled saint,
To whom I quaff'd my nectar up.
Behold, how bright that purple lip
Now blushes through the wave at me; Every roseate drop I sip
Is just like kissing wine from thee.
And still I drink the more for this;
For, ever when the draught I drain, Thy lip invites another kiss,
And in the nectar flows again.
So, here's to thee, my gentle dear,