THOUGH Sorrow long has worn my heart;
Though every day I've counted o'er
Hath brought a new and quick'ning smart
To wounds that rankled fresh before;

Though in my earliest life bereft

Of tender links by nature tied;
Though hope deceiv'd, and pleasure left;
Though friends betray'd and foes belied;

I still had hopes-for hope will stay
After the sunset of delight;
So like the star which ushers day,

We scarce can think it heralds night!

I hop'd that, after all its strife,

My weary heart at length should rest,
And, fainting from the waves of life,
Find harbour in a brother's breast.

That brother's breast was warm with truth,
Was bright with honour's purest ray;
He was the dearest, gentlest youth
Ah, why then was he torn away?

He should have stay'd, have linger'd here
To soothe his Julia's every woe;
He should have chas'd each bitter tear,
And not have caus'd those tears to flow.

We saw within his soul expand

The fruits of genius, nurs'd by taste; While Science, with a fost'ring hand, Upon his brow her chaplet plac'd.

We saw, by bright degrees, his mind Grow rich in all that makes men dear;Enlighten'd, social, and refin'd,

In friendship firm, in love sincere.

TO THE LARGE AND BEAUTIFUL

MISS

IN ALLUSION TO SOME PARTNERSHIP IN A LOTTERY SHARE.

IMPROMPTU.

-Ego pars

VIRG.

IN wedlock a species of lottery lies,
Where in blanks and in prizes we deal;
But how comes it that you, such a capital prize,
Should so long have remain'd in the wheel?

If ever, by Fortune's indulgent decree,
To me such a ticket should roll,

A sixteenth, Heav'n knows! were sufficient for

me;

For what could I do with the whole?

A DREAM.

I THOUGHT this heart enkindled lay On Cupid's burning shrine:

I thought he stole thy heart away, And plac'd it near to mine.

I saw thy heart begin to melt,
Like ice before the sun;
Till both a glow congenial felt,
And mingled into one!

ΤΟ

WITH all my soul, then, let us part, Since both are anxious to be free; And I will send you home your heart, If you will send back mine to me.

We've had some happy hours together, But joy must often change its wing; And spring would be but gloomy weather, If we had nothing else but spring.

"Tis not that I expect to find

A more devoted, fond, and true one With rosier cheek or sweeter mindEnough for me that she's a new one.

Thus let us leave the bower of love,

Where we have loiter'd long in bliss; And you may down that pathway rove, While I shall take my way through this.

ANACREONTIC.

"SHE never look'd so kind before—

Yet why the wanton's smile recall? "I've seen this witchery o'er and o'er, ""Tis hollow, vain, and heartless all!"

Thus I said and, sighing, drain'd

The cup which she so late had tasted; Upon whose rim still fresh remain'd

The breath, so oft in falsehood wasted.

I took the harp, and would have sung
Asif 'twere not of her I sang;
But still the notes on Lamia hung-

On whom but Lamia could they hang?

Those eyes of hers, that floating shine,

Like diamonds in some Eastern river; That kiss, for which, if worlds were mine, A world for every kiss I'd give her.

That frame so delicate, yet warm'd With flushes of love's genial hue;A mould transparent, as if form'd

To let the spirit's light shine through.

Of these I sung, and notes and words
Were sweet, as if the very air
From Lamia's lip hung o'er the chords,
And Lamia's voice still warbled there!

But when, alas, I turn'd the theme,

And when of vows and oaths I spoke, Of truth and hope's seducing dream

The chord beneath my finger broke.

False harp! false woman!- such, oh, such Are lutes too frail and hearts too willing; Any hand, whate'er its touch,

Can set their chords or pulses thrilling.

Oн, lost, for ever lost—no more
Shall Vesper light our dewy way
Along the rocks of Crissa's shore,

To hymn the fading fires of day;
No more to Tempé's distant vale

In holy musings shall we roam, Through summer's glow and winter's gale, To bear the mystic chaplets home.' 'Twas then my soul's expanding zeal, 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;

1 The laurel, for the common uses of the temple, for adorning the altars and sweeping the pavement, was supplied by a tree near the fountain of Castalia; but upon all important occasions, they sent to Tempe for their laurel. We find, in Pausanias, that this valky supplied the branches, of which the temple was originally exstructed; and Plutarch says, in his Dialogue on Music, "The youth who brings the Tempic laurel to Delphi is always attended by a player on the Hute." Αλλα μην και τῳ κατακομίζοντι παιδί την Τεκτίτο δαφνην εις Δελφους παρομαρτεί αυλητής.

All that the young should feel and know,
By thee was taught so sweetly well,
Thy words fell soft as vernal snow,

And all was brightness where they fell!
Fond soother of my infant tear,
Fond sharer of my infant joy,
Is not thy shade still ling'ring here?
Am I not still thy soul's employ?
Oh, yes-
and, as in former days,
When, meeting on the sacred mount,
Our nymphs awak'd their choral lays,
And danc'd around Cassotis' fount;
As then, 'twas all thy wish and care,
That mine should be the simplest mien,
My lyre and voice the sweetest there,
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,
To memory so entirely dear!

I'll ask him where's the veil of sleep That us'd to shade thy looks of light; And why those eyes their vigil keep, When other suns are sunk in night?

And I will say her angel breast

Has never throbb'd with guilty sting; Her bosom is the sweetest nest

Where Slumber could repose his wing!

And I will say - her cheeks, that flush
Like vernal roses in the sun,
Have ne'er by shame been taught to blush,
Except for what her eyes have done!

Then tell me, why, thou child of air! Does slumber from her eyelids rove? What is her heart's impassion'd care? Perhaps, oh sylph! perhaps, 'tis love.

THE WONDER.

COME, tell me where the maid is found,
Whose heart can love without deceit,
And I will range the world around,
To sigh one moment at her feet.

Oh! tell me where's her sainted home, What air receives her blessed sigh, A pilgrimage of years I'll roam

To catch one sparkle of her eye!

And if her cheek be smooth and bright,
While truth within her bosom lies,

I'll gaze upon her morn and night,

Till my heart leave me through my eyes.

Show me on earth a thing so rare.
I'll own all miracles are true;
To make one maid sincere and fair,
Oh, 'tis the utmost Heav'n can do!

LYING.

Che con le lor bugie pajon divini.-Mauro d'Arcano.

I Do confess, in many a sigh,
My lips have breath'd you many a lie;
And who, with such delights in view,
Would lose them, for a lie or two?

Nay,-look not thus, with brow reproving; Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving.

If half we tell the girls were true,

If half we swear to think and do,
Were aught but lying's bright illusion,
This world would be in strange confusion.
If ladies' eyes were, every one,
As lovers swear, a radiant sun,
Astronomy must leave the skies,
To learn her lore in ladies' eyes.
Oh, no-believe me, lovely girl,
When nature turns your teeth to pearl,
Your neck to snow, your eyes to fire,
Your amber locks to golden wire,
Then, only then can Heaven decree,
That you should live for only me,
Or I for you, as night and morn,
We've swearing kiss'd, and kissing sworn.

And now, my gentle hints to clear, For once I'll tell you truth, my dear. Whenever you may chance to meet Some loving youth, whose love is sweet, Long as you're false and he believes you, Long as you trust and he deceives you, So long the blissful bond endures, And while he lies, his heart is yours: But, oh! you've wholly lost the youth The instant that he tells you truth.

ANACREONTIC.

FRIEND of my soul, this goblet sip, "Twill chase that pensive tear; "Tis not so sweet as woman's lip, But, oh! 'tis more sincere. Like her delusive beam,

"Twill steal away thy mind: But, truer than love's dream, It leaves no sting behind.

Come, twine the wreath, thy brows to shade;
These flow'rs were cull'd at noon;-
Like woman's love the rose will fade,
But, ah! not half so soon.

For though the flower's decay'd,
Its fragrance is not o'er;
But once when love's betrayed,
Its sweet life blooms no more.