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 traced, Has been, like thee, a motley waste Of follics 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 loved 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 withering look, Disdainful flings away the book. Like thine, its pages here and there Have oft been stain'd with blots of care; And sometimes hours of peace, I own, Upon some fairer leaves have shown, White as the snowings of that Heaven By which those hours of peace were given. On! if your tears are given to care, If real woe disturbs your peace, Come to my bosom, weeping fair! And I will bid your weeping cease. But if with Fancy's vision'd fears, With dreams of woe your bosom thrill, You look so lovely in your tears, That I must bid you drop them still! SONG. HAVE you not seen the timid tear Steal trembling from mine eye? Have you not mark'd the flush of fear, Or caught the murmur'd sigh? And can you think my love is chill, Nor fix'd on you alone? And can you rend, by doubting still, To you my soul's affections move If still my truth you'll try! THE SHIELD.' On! did you not hear a voice of death? Was it a wailing bird of the gloom, Which shrieks on the house of woe all night? Or a shivering fiend that flew to a tomb, To howl and to feed till the glance of light? This poem is perfectly in the taste of the present day - his nam plebecula gaudet.»-E. TO MRS YES, Heaven can witness how I strove my E'en then some purer thoughts would steal Amid my senses' warm excess; And at the moment-oh! e'en then And almost yielded to delight! God! how I wish'd, in that wild hour, That lips alone, thus stamp'd with heat, To make our souls effusing meet! That we might mingle by the breath In all of love's delicious death; At night, which was my hour of calm, He should have stay'd, have linger'd here, To calm his Julia's every woe; He should have chased each bitter tear, And not have caused those tears to flow. We saw his youthful soul expand In blooms of genius, nursed by taste; While Science, with a fostering hand, Upon his brow her chaplet placed. We saw his gradual opening mind In friendship firm, in love sincere. Such was the youth we loved so well; Such were the hopes that fate denied : We loved, but, ah! we could not tell How deep, how dearly, till he died! Close as the fondest links could strain, Twined with my very heart he grew; And by that fate which breaks the chain, The heart is almost broken too! But you told me that passion a moment amused, And still I entreated, and still you denied, Till I almost was made to believe you sincere; Though I found that, in bidding me leave you, you sigh'd, And when you repulsed me, 't was done with a tear. In vain did I whisper, « There's nobody nigh; In vain with the tremors of passion implore; Was I right?-oh! I cannot believe I was wrong. By Heaven! I would rather for ever forswear The Elysium that dwells on a beautiful breast, Than alarm for a moment the peace that is there, Or banish the dove from so hallowed a nest! A NIGHT THOUGHT. How oft a cloud, with envious veil Obscures yon bashful light, Which seems so modestly to steal Along the waste of night! 'Tis thus the world's obtrusive wrongs ELEGIAC STANZAS. Sic javat perire. WHEN wearied wretches sink to sleep, How heavenly soft their slumbers lie! How sweet is death to those who weep, To those who weep and long to die! Saw you the soft and grassy bed, Where flow'rets deck the green earth's breast? 'Tis there I wish to lay my head, Tis there I wish to sleep at rest! Oh! let not tears embalm my tomb, None but the dews by twilight given! Oh! let not sighs disturb the gloom, None but the whispering winds of Heaven! THE KISS. GROW to my lip, thou sacred kiss, On which my soul's beloved swore That there should come a time of bliss When she would mock my hopes no more; And fancy shall thy glow renew, In sighs at morn, and dreams at night, And none shall steal thy holy dew Till thou'rt absolved by rapture's rite. Sweet hours that are to make me blest, Oh! fly, like breezes, to the goal, And let my love, my more than soul, Come panting to this fever'd breast; And while in every glance I drink The rich o'erflowings of her mind, Oh! let her all impassion'd sink, In sweet abandonment resign'd, Blushing for all our struggles past, And murmuring, «I am thine at last!. MYSELF, dear Julia! and the Sun, And mine, I fear, are simply oddic. The day flew by, and night was short I know not how we changed, or why, There's few would think how close I ve kiss'd her. But, Julia, let those matters pass! I'll have no other guest to meet you, As full of cordial soul at least As those where Delia met Tibullus, Or Lesbia wanton'd with Catullus. ' I'll sing you many a roguish sonnet About it, at it and upon it; And songs address'd, as if I loved, To all the girls with whom I've roved. Cœnam, non sine candida puella. CAT. Carm. xiii. Come, pr'ythee come, you'll find me here, |