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'Tis thus my heart shall learn to know
How tleeting is this world below,
Where all that meets the morning light,
Is chang'd before the fall of night!!

And, soon as night shall close the eye

Of heaven's young wanderer in the west ;
When seers are gazing on the sky,

To find their future orbs of rest;
Then shall I take my trembling way,

Unseen but to those worlds above,
And, led by thy mysterious ray,

Steal to the night-bower of my love.

TO MRS.

I'll tell thee, as I trim thy fire,

" Swift, swift the tide of being runs,
" And Time, who bids thy flame expire,

“Will also quench yon heaven of suns.”
Oh, then if earth's united power
Can never chain one feathery hour ;
If every print we leave to-day
To-morrow's wave will sweep away;
Who panses to inquire of heaven
Why were the fleeting treasures given,
The sunny days, the shady nights,
And all their brief but dear delights,
Which heaven has made for man to use,
And man should think it crime to lose ?
Who that has culld a fresh-blown rose
Will ask it why it breathes and glows,
Cnmindful of the blushing ray,
In which it shines its soul away ;
l'nmindful of the scented sigh,
With which it dies and loves to die.

ON HER BEAUTIFUL TRANSLATION OF

VOITURE'S KISS.

Mon âme sur mon lèvre étoit lors toute entière,

Pour savourer le miel qui sur la vôtre étoit;
Mais en me retirant, elle resta derrière,
Tant de ce doux plaisir l'amorce là restoit.

VOITURE.
How heav'nly was the poet's doom,

To breathe his spirit through a kiss;
And lose within so sweet a tomb

The trembling messenger of bliss !

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''Pun se iha stolus dizny, as expressed among the dog- duction, he calls him, “une nouvelle créature, qui pourra Tras of Heraclitus the Ephesian, and with the same image by comprendre les choses les plus sublimes, et ce qui est bien Seneca, in whom we find a beautiful diffusion of the thought. au-dessus, qui pourra goûter les mêmes plaisirs." See his

Netno est mane, qui fuit pridie. Corpora nostra rapiuntur Vénus Physique. This appears to be one of the efforts at Luminum more; quidquid vides currit cum tempore. Nihil Fontenelle's gallantry of manner, for which the learned Preex his quæ viderus manet. Ego ipse, dum loquor mutari sident is so well and justly ridiculed in the Akakia of Volipua, muntatus sum," &c.

taire. * Aristippus considered motion as the principle of happi- Maupertuis may be thought to have borrowed from the anDesa, ia which idea he differed from the Epicureans, who cient Aristippus that indiscriminate theory of pleasures which I baked tr a state of repose as the only true voluptuousness, he has set forth in his Essai de Philosophie Morale, and for

and avoided even the too lively agitations of pleasure, as a which he was so very justly condemned. Aristippus, accord. Tiolent and ungraceful derangement of the senses.

ing to Laertius, held un diccique To hoorvy úderns, which irraMaupertuis has been still more explicit than this philoso-tional sentiment has been adopted by Maupertuis : " Tant pber, in ranking the pleasures of sense above the sublimest qu'on ne considère que l'état présent, tous les plaisirs sont du pursuits of wisdom. Speaking of the infant man, in his pro- inėme genre," &c. &c.

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And still “Good night," my Rosa, say But whisper still, “ A minute stay ; And I will stay, and every minute Shall have an age of transport in it; Till Time himself shall stay his flight, To listen to our sweet “Good night.”

“ THE BOOK OF FOLLIES ;"

IN WHICH WYKRY ONE THAT OPENED IT WAS TO CONTRINOTH SOMETHING.

“ Good night!” you'll murmur with a sigh,
And tell me it is time to fly:
And I will vow, will swear to go,
While still that sweet voice murmurs “ No!”
Till slumber seal our weary sight
And then, my love, my soul, “Good night!”

SONG.

Why does azure deck the sky ?

'Tis to be like thy looks of blue ; Why is red the rose's dye?

Because it is thy blushes' hue. All that's fair, by Love's decree, Has been made resembling thee!

TO THE BOOK OF FOLLIES. This tribute's from a wretched elf, Who hails thee, emblem of himself. The book of life, which I have trac'd, Has been, like thee, a motley waste Of follies scribbled o'er and o'er, One folly bringing hundreds more. Some have indeed been writ so neat, In characters so fair, so sweet, That those who judge not too severely, Have said they lov'd such follies dearly: Yet still, O book! the allusion stands ; For these were penn'd by female hands : The rest - alas ! I own the truth Have all been scribbled so uncouth That Prudence, with a with’ring look, Disdainful, flings away the book. Like thine, its pages here and there Have oft been staind with blots of care ; And sometimes hours of peace, I own, Upon some fairer leaves have shown, White as the snowings of that heav'n By which those hours of peace were given. But now no longer - such, oh, such The blast of Disappointment's touch! No longer now those hours appear ; Each leaf is sullied by a tear : Blank, blank is ev'ry page with care, Not ev'n a folly brightens there. Will they yet brighten ? — never, never ! Then shut the book, o God, for ever!

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Why is falling snow so white,

But to be like thy bosom fair? Why are solar beams so bright ?

That they may seem thy golden hair! All that's bright, by Love's decree, Has been made resembling thee!

Why are nature's beauties felt?

Oh! 'tis thine in her we see ! Why has music power to melt ?

Oh! because it speaks like thee. All that's sweet, by Love's decree, Has been made resembling thee!

TO ROSA.

TO ROSA.

LIKE one who trusts to summer skies,

And puts his little bark to sea, Is he who, lur’d by smiling eyes,

Consigns his simple heart to thee.

Say, why should the girl of my soul be in tears

At a meeting of rapture like this, When the glooms of the past and the sorrow of |

years Have been paid by one moment of bliss ?

For fickle is the summer wind,

And sadly may the bark be tost; For thou art sure to change thy mind,

And then the wretched heart is lost !

Are they shed for that moment of blissful delight,

Which dwells on her memory yet ? Do they flow, like the dews of the love-breathing

night, From the warmth of the sun that has set ?

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When heroes are resting, and Joy is in bloom

SONG. When laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover,

Fly from the world, O Bessy! to me, And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume. Thou wilt never find any sincerer ;

I'll give up the world, O Bessy! for thee, Light went the harp when the War-God, reclining, I can never meet any that's dearer.

Lay lulld on the white arm of Beauty to rest, Then tell me no more, with a tear and a sigh, When round his rich armour the myrtle hung That our loves will be censur'd by many; twining,

All, all have their follies, and who will deny And flights of young doves made his helmet

That ours is the sweetest of any ?
their nest.
But, when the battle came,

When your lip has met mine, in communion so
The hero's eye breath'd flame :

sweet, Soon from his neck the white arm was flung ;

Have we felt as if virtue forbid it ? -
While, to his wak’ning ear,

Have we felt as if heav'n denied them to meet ? -
No other sounds were dear

No, rather 'twas heav'n that did it. But brazen notes of war, by thousand trumpets so innocent, love, is the joy we then sip, sung.

So little of wrong is there in it, Bat then came the light harp, when danger was That I wish all my errors were lodg'd on your lip, ended,

And I'd kiss them away in a minute. And Beauty once more lull’d the War-God to rest;

Then come to your lover, oh ! fiy to his shed, When tresses of gold with his laurels lay blended, From a world which I know thou despisest ; And flights of young doves made his helmet And slumber will hover as light o'er our bed their nest.

As e'er on the couch of the wisest.

Εγχει, και παλιν εισι, παλιν, σαλιν, "Ήλιοδωρας

Ειτι, συν αυξητο το γλυκυ μιση ονομα.
Και μου τον βειχθεντα μυρως και χθιζον εοντα,

Μναμισυνον αυνας, αμφιτιθει στεφανον"

Δακρυιι φιλιραστον ιδου ροδον, oύνεκα κειναν
Αλλοθι κ' ου κολπις ημετέροις ισορα.

BRUNCK. Analect. tom. i. p. 28.

And when o'er our pillow the tempest is driven,

And thou, pretty innocent, fearest,
I'll tell thee, it is not the chiding of heav'n,

'Tis only our lullaby, dearest.

Then bid me not to despair and pine,

Fanny, dearest of all the dears! The Love that's order'd to bathe in wine,

Would be sure to take cold in tears.

And, oh! while we lie on our deathbed, my love,

Looking back on the scene of our errors,
A sigh from my Bessy shall plead then above,

And Death be disarm'd of his terrors.
And each to the other embracing will say,

“ Farewell! let us hope we're forgiven.” Thy last fading glance will illumine the way,

And a kiss be our passport to heaven !

Reflected bright in this heart of mine,

Fanny, dearest, thy image lies; But, ah, the mirror would cease to shine,

If dimm'd too often with sighs. They lose the half of beauty's light,

Who view it through sorrow's tear; And 'tis but to see thee truly bright

That I keep my eye-beam clear. Then wait no longer till tears shall flow,

Fanny, dearest - the hope is vain ; If sunshine cannot dissolve thy snow,

I shall never attempt it with rain.

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Thou say'st, that we were born to meet, Still flying from Nature to study her laws,

That our hearts bear one common seal ; - And dulling delight by exploring its cause, Think, Lady, think, how man's deceit

You forget how superior, for mortals below, Can seem to sigh and feign to feel.

Is the fiction they dream to the truth that they

know. When, o'er thy face some gleam of thought, Oh! who, that has e'er enjoyed rapture complete,

Like daybeams through the morning air, Would ask how we feel it, or why it is sweet ; Hath gradual stole, and I have caught How rays are confus'd, or how particles fly The feeling ere it kindled there;

Through the medium refin'd of a glance or a sigh;

Is there one, who but once would not rather have The sympathy I then betray'd,

known it, Perhaps was but the child of art,

Than written, with Harvey, whole volumes upon it? The guile of one, who long hath play'd With all these wily nets of heart.

As for you, my sweet-voiced and invisible love,

You must surely be one of those spirits, that rove Oh! thine is not my earliest vow;

By the bank where, at twilight, the poet reclines, Though few the years I yet have told,

When the star of the west on his solitude shines, Canst thou believe I've liv'd till now,

And the magical fingers of fancy have hung With loveless heart or senses cold?

Every breeze with a sigh, every leaf with a tongue.

Oh! hint to him then, 'tis retirement alone No - other nymphs to joy and pain

Can hallow his harp or ennoble its tone; This wild and wandering heart hath mov'd; Like you, with a veil of seclusion between, With some it sported, wild and vain,

His song to the world let him utter unseen, While some it dearly, truly, lov’d.

And like you, a legitimate child of the spheres,

Escape from the eye to enrapture the ears.
The cheek to thine I fondly lay,
To theirs hath been as fondly laid;

Sweet spirit of mystery! how I should love,

In the wearisome ways I am fated to rove,
The words to thee I warmly say,
To them have been as warmly said.

To have you thus ever invisibly nigh,
Inhaling for ever your song and your sigh !

Mid the crowds of the world and the murmurs of Then, scorn at once a worthless heart,

care, Worthless alike, or fix'd or free ;

I might sometimes converse with my nymph of the Think of the pure, bright soul thou art, And - love not me, oh love not me.

And turn with distaste from the clamorous crew,

To steal in the pauses one whisper from you. Enough - pow, turn thine eyes again ; What, still that look and still that sigh!

Then, come and be near me, for ever be mine, Dost thou not feel my counsel then?

We shall hold in the air a communion divine, Oh! no, beloved, — nor do I.

As sweet as, of old, was imagin’d to dwell
In the grotto of Numa, or Socrates' cell.
And oft, at those lingering moments of night,
When the heart's busy thoughts have put slumber

to flight,

You shall come to my pillow and tell me of love, THE INVISIBLE GIRL.

Such as angel to angel might whisper above.

Sweet spirit !- and then, could you borrow the THEY try to persuade me, my dear little sprite, That you're not a true daughter of ether and light, Of that voice, to my ear like some fairy-song Nor have any concern with those fanciful forms

known, That dance upon rainbows and ride upon storms; The voice of the one upon earth, who has twin'd That, in short, you're a woman ; your lip and With her being for ever my heart and my mind, your eye

Though lonely and far from the light of her smile, As mortal as ever drew gods from the sky. An exile, and weary and hopeless the while, Bat I will not believe them - no, Science, to you

Could

you

shed for a moment her voice on my ear, I have long bid a last and a careless adieu : I will think, for that moment, that Cara is near;

air,

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