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 mind

Enough 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
As if '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.

And when that thrill is most awake,

And when you think Heav'n's joys await you, The nymph will change, the chord will breakOh Love, oh Music, how I hate you!

TO JULIA.

I SAW the peasant's hand unkind
From yonder oak the ivy sever;
They seem'd in very being twin'd;
Yet now the oak is fresh as ever!
Not so the widow'd ivy shines:
Torn from its dear and only stay,
In drooping widowhood it pines,
And scatters all its bloom away.

Thus, Julia, did our hearts entwine,

Till Fate disturb'd their tender ties : Thus gay indifference blooms in thine, While mine, deserted, droops and dies!

HYMN

OF A VIRGIN OF DELPHI,

AT THE TOMB OF HER MOther.

OH, 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; "And, though it droop in languor now,

"Shall flourish on the Delphic shrine ! "Thus, in the vale of earthly sense,

"Though sunk awhile the spirit lies, "A viewless hand shall cull it thence, "To bloom immortal in the skies!"

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!

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;
Learned without affectation;
Not deceitful, yet refin'd;

Wise enough, but never rigid;

Gay, but not too lightly free;
Chaste as snow, and yet not frigid;
Fond, yet satisfied with me:

Were she all this ten times over,
All that heav'n to earth allows,
I should be too much her lover
Ever to become her spouse.

Love will never bear enslaving;

Summer garments suit him best;
Bliss itself is not worth having,
If we're by compulsion blest.

ANACREONTIC.

I FILL'D to thee, to thee I drank,

I nothing did but drink and fill; The bowl by turns was bright and blank, 'Twas drinking, filling, drinking still.

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, And may that eyelid never shine Beneath a darker, bitterer tear

Than bathes it in this bowl of mine!

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 kist, 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;