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.

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.

TO MRS

YES, Heaven can witness how I strove

To love thee with a spirit's love; To make thy purer wish my own, And mingle with thy mind alone. Oh! I appeal to those pure dreams In which my soul has hung on thee, And I've forgot thy witching form, And I've forgot the liquid beams That eye diffuses, thrilling warmYes, yes, forgot each sensual charm, Each madd ning spell of luxury, That could seduce my soul's desires, And bid it throb with guiltier fires.Such was my love, and many a time, When sleep has given thee to my breast, And thou hast seem'd to share the crime Which made thy lover wildly blest; E'en then, in all that rich delusion, When, by voluptuous visions fired, My soul, in rapture's warm confusion, Has on a phantom's lip expired!

E'en then some purer thoughts would steal

Amid my senses' warm excess;

And at the moment-oh! e'en then
I've started from thy melting press,
And blush'd for all I've dared to feel,
Yet sigh'd to feel it all again!-
Such was my love, and still, O still
I might have calm'd the unholy thrill:
My heart might be a taintless shrine,
And thou its votive saint should be:
There, there I'd make thee all divine,
Myself divine in honouring thee.
But, oh! that night! that fatal night!
When both bewilder'd, both betray'd,
We sank beneath the flow of soul,
Which for a moment mock'd control;
And on the dangerous kiss delay'd,
And almost yielded to delight!
God! how I wish'd, in that wild hour,
That lips alone, thus stamp'd with heat,
Had for a moment all the power
To make our souls effusing meet!

That we might mingle by the breath

In all of love's delicious death;
And in a kiss at once be blest,
As, oh! we trembled at the rest!
Pity me, love! I'll pity thee,
If thou indeed hast felt like me.
All, all my bosom's peace is o'er!

At night, which was my hour of calm,
When from the page of classic lore,
From the pure fount of ancient lay,
My soul has drawn the placid balm
Which charm'd its little griefs away;
Ah! there I find that balm no more.
Those spells, which make us oft forget
The fleeting troubles of the day,
In deeper sorrows only whet
The stings they cannot tear away.
When to my pillow rack'd I fly,
With wearied sense and wakeful eye,
While my brain maddens, where, O where
Is that serene consoling prayer,
Which once has harbinger'd my rest,
When the still soothing voice of Heaven
Has seem'd to whisper in my breast,

Sleep on, thy errors are forgiven!»
No, though I still in semblance pray,
My thoughts are wandering far away,
And e'en the name of Deity

Is murmur'd out in sighs for thee!!

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
Enrich'd by all the graces dear;
Enlighten'd, social, and refined,

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!

FANNY OF TIMMOL.

A MAIL-COACH ADVENTURE.

A REFLECTION AT SEA.

SEE how, beneath the moonbeam's smile,
Yon little billow heaves its breast,
And foams and sparkles for a while,
And murmuring then subsides to rest.

Thus man, the sport of bliss and care,
Rises on Time's eventful sea;
And, having swell'd a moment there,
Thus melts into eternity!

AN INVITATION TO SUPPER.
TO MRS

MYSELF, dear Julia! and the Sun,
Have now two years of rambling run;
And he before his wheels has driven
The grand menagerie of heaven,
While I have met on earth, I swear,
As many brutes as he has there.
The only difference I can see
Betwixt the flaming god and me,
Is, that his ways are periodic,

And mine, I fear, are simply oddic.
But, dearest girl! 't is now a lapse
Of two short years, or less, perhaps,
Since you to me, and I to you,
Vow'd to be ever fondly true;-
Ah, Julia! those were pleasant times!
You loved me for my amorous rhymes;
And I loved you, because I thought
'T was so delicious to be taught
By such a charming guide as you,
With eyes of fire and lips of dew,
All I had often fancied o'er,
But never, never felt before:

The day flew by, and night was short
For half our blisses, half our sport!

I know not how we changed, or why,
Or if the first was you or 1:
Yet so 't is now, we meet each other,
And I'm no more than Julia's brother;
While she's so like my prudent sister,
There's few would think how close I ve kiss'd her.

But, Julia, let those matters pass!
If you will brim a sparkling glass
To vanish'd hours of true delight,
Come to me after dusk to-night.
I'll have no other guest to meet you,
But here alone I'll tête à tête you,
Over a little Attic feast,

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.

1 Cœnam, non sine candida puella.

CAT. Carm. xiii.

Come, pr'ythee come, you'll find me here,
Like Horace, waiting for his dear. '
There shall not be to-night, on earth,
Two souls more elegant in mirth;
And, though our hey-day passion's fled,
The spirit of the love that's dead
Shall hover wanton o'er our head;
Like souls that round the grave
will fly,
In which their late possessors lie:
And who, my pretty Julia, knows,
But when our warm remembrance glows,
The ghost of Love may act anew,
What Love when living used to do!