May now and then a look engage,

And steal a moment's thought for me. But, oh! in pity let not those

Whose hearts are not of gentle mould, Let not the eye, that seldom flows

With feeling tear, my song behold. For, trust me, they who never melt

With pity, never melt with love; And they will frown at all I've felt,

And all my loving lays reprove. But if, perhaps, some gentler mind,

Which rather loves to praise than blame, Should in my page an interest find,

And linger kindly on my name; Tell him,-or, oh! if gentler still,

By female lips my name be blest : Ah! where do all affections thrill

So sweetly as in woman's breast ?Tell her, that he whose loving themes

Her eye indulgent wanders o'er, Could sometimes wake from idle dreams,

And bolder flights of fancy soar; That glory oft would claim the lay,

And friendship oft his numbers move; But whisper then, that, “sooth to say,

His sweetest song was given to LOVE!"

TO JULIA. WELL, Julia, if to love, and live 'Mid all the pleasures love can give,

Be crimes that bring damnation; You-you and I have given such scope To loves and joys, we scarce can hope

In heaven the least salvation !
And yet, I think, did Heaven design
That blisses dear, like yours and mine,

Should be our own undoing;
It had not made my soul so warm,
Nor given you such a witching form,

To bid me doat on ruin!

Then wipe away that timid tear;
Sweet truant! you have nought to fear,

Though you were whelm'd in sin;
Stand but at heaven's gate awhile,
And you so like an angel smile,
They can't but let

you

in.

INCONSTANCY. AND do I then wonder that Julia deceives me, When surely there's nothing in nature more com

mon? She vows to be true, and while vowing she leaves

mer

TO MRS.
IF, in the dream that hovers

Around my sleeping mind,
Fancy thy form discovers,

And paints thee melting kind, If joys from sleep I borrow,

Sure thou'lt forgive me this ; For he who wakes to sorrow

At least may dream of bliss ! Oh ! if thou art, in seeming,

All that I've e'er required: Oh! if I feel, in dreaming,

All that I've e'er desired; Wilt thou forgive my taking

A kiss, or something more? What thou deny'st me waking,

Oh! let me slumber o'er!

But could I expect any more from a woman? Oh, woman! your heart is a pitiful treasure ;

And Mahomet's doctrine was not too severe, When he thought you were only materials of pleasure,

And reason and thinking were out of your sphere. By your heart, when the fond sighing lover can win it,

He thinks that an age of anxiety's paid ; But, oh! while he's blest, let him die on the minute

If he live but a day, he'll be surely betray'd.

IMITATION OF CATULLUS."

TO HIMSELF.

Miser Catulle, desinas ineptire, etc.

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 ?

1 Few poets knew better than Catullus, what a French writer calls

la délicatesse

D'un voluptueux sentiment; but his passions too often obscured his imagination - E

No, no !-Yet, love, I will not chide,

Although your heart were fond of roving: Nor that, nor all the world beside,

Could keep your faithful boy from loving. You 'll soon be distant from his eye,

And, with you, all that's worth possessing Oh! then it will be sweet to die,

When life has lost its only blessing !

When lightly thou didst fly to meet
The girl, who smiled so rosy sweet-
The girl thou lovedst with fonder pain
Than e'er thy heart can feel again!
You met-your souls seem'd all in one-
Sweet little sports were said and done-
Thy heart was warm enough for both,
And hers indeed was nothing loth.
Such were the hours that once were thine;
But, ah! those hours no longer shine!
For now the nymph delights no more
In what she loved so dear before;
And all Catullus now can do
Is to be proud and frigid too;
Nor follow where the wanton flies,
Nor sue the bliss that she denies.
False maid! he bids farewell to thee,
To love, and all love's misery.
The hey-day of his heart is o'er,
Nor will he court one favour more;
But soon he'll see thee droop thy head,
Doom'd to a lone and loveless bed,
When none will seek the happy night,
Or come to traffic in delight !
Fly, perjured girl !—but whither fly?
Who now will praise thy cheek and eye ?
Who now will drink the syren tone,
Which tells him thou art all his own?
Who now will court thy wild delights,
Thy honey kiss, and turtle bites?
Oh! none.--And he who loved before
Can never, never love thee more!

SONG. SWEET seducer! blandly smiling; Charming still, and still beguiling! Oft I swore to love thee never, Yet I love thee more than ever! Why that little wanton blushing, Glancing eye, and bosom flushing? Flushing warm, and wily glancingAll is lovely, all entrancing ! Turn away those lips of blissesI am poison’d by thy kisses ! Yet, again, ah! turn them to me: Ruin's sweet, when they undo me! Oh! be less, be less enchanting ; Let some little

grace be wanting ; Let my eyes, when I'm expiring, Gaze awhile without admiring !

NATURE'S LABELS.

A FRAGMENT.

TO JULIA Though Fate, my girl, may bid us part,

Our souls it cannot, shall not, sever ; The heart will seek its kindred heart,

And cling to it as close as ever. But must we, must we part indeed ?

Is all our dream of rapture over ? And does not Julia's bosom bleed

To leave so dear, so fond a lover? Does she too mourn ?-Perhaps she may;

Perhaps she weeps our blisses fleeting : But why is Julia's eye so gay,

If Julia's heart like mine is beating ? I oft have loved the brilliant glow

Of rapture in her blue eye streaming, But can the bosom bleed with woe,

While joy is in the glances beaming ?

In vain we fondly strive to trace
The soul's reflection in the face;
In vain we dwell on lines and crosses,
Crooked mouth, or short proboscis;
Boobies have look'd as wise and bright
As Plato or the Stagyrite:
And many a sage and learned skull
Has peep'd through windows dark and duk,
Since then, though art do all it can,
We ne'er can reach the inward man,
Nor inward woman, from without
(Though, ma'am, you smile, as if in doubt,)
I think 't were well if Nature could
(And Nature could, if Nature would)
Some pretty short descriptions write,
In tablets large, in black and white,
Which she might hang about our throttles,
Like labels upon physic-bottles.
There we might read of all-But stay-
As learned dialectics say,
The argument most apt and ample
For common use, is the example.
For instance, then, if Nature's care
Had not arranged those traits so fair,
Which speak the soul of Lucy L-nd-n,
This is the label she'd have pinn'd on.

LABEL FIRST.

Within this vase there lies enshrined The purest, brightest gem of mind'

1 I believe this epigram is originally French.-E.

But your lip, love! is only St. Peter,

And keeps but the key to your heaven!

Though Feeling's hand may sometimes throw
Upon its charms the shade of woe,
The lustre of the

gem,

when veil'd, Shall be but mellow'd, not conceal'd. Now, sirs, imagine, if you 're able, That Nature wrote a second label, They ’re her own words—at least suppose soAnd boldly pin it on Pomposo.

LABEL SECOND. When I composed the fustian brain Of this redoubted Captain Vain, I had at hand but few ingredients, And so was forced to use expedients. I put therein some small discerning, A grain of sense, a grain of learning; And when I saw the void behind, I fill'd it up with—froth and wind !

TO JULIA.
Mock me no more with love's beguiling dream,

A dream, I find, illusory as sweet :
One smile of friendship, nay of cold esteem,

Is dearer far than passion's bland deceit!
I've heard you oft eternal truth declare ;

Your heart was only mine, I once believed. Ah! shall I say that all your vows were air ?

And must I say, my hopes were all deceived ? Vow, then, no longer that our souls are twined,

That all our joys are felt with mutual zeal: Julia ! 't is pity, pity makes you kind;

You know I love, and you would seem to feel. But shall I still go revel in those arms

On bliss in which affection takes no part? No, no! farewell! you give me but your charms,

When I had fondly thought you gave your heart.

*

*

*

IMPROMPTU.
Look in my eyes, my blushing fair!
Thou 'lt see thyself reflected there;
And, as I gaze on thine, I see

Two little miniatures of me:
Thus in our looks some propagation lies,
For we make babies in each other's eyes !

TO MRS. M-
SWEET lady! look not thus again :

Those little pouting smiles recal-
A maid remember'd now with pain,

Who was my love, my life, my all! Oh! while this heart delirious took

Sweet poison from her thrilling eye, Thus would she pout, and lisp, and look,

And I would hear, and gaze, and sigh! Yes, I did love her-madly love

She was the sweetest, best deceiver ! And oft she swore she'd never rove!

And I was destined to believe her! Then, lady, do not wear the smile

Of her whose smile could thus betray: Alas! I think the lovely wile

Again might steal my heart away. And when the spell that stole my mind

On lips so pure as thine I see,
I fear the heart which she resign'd

Will err again, and fly to thee !

TO ROSA. Does the harp of Rosa slumber? Once it breathed the sweetest number. Never does a wilder song Steal the breezy lyre along, When the wind, in odours dying, Woos it with enamour'd sighing. Does the harp of Rosa cease ? Once it told a tale of peace To her lover's throbbing breastThen he was divinely blest ! Ah' but Rosa loves no more, Therefore Rosa's song is o'er; And her harp neglected lies; And her boy forgotten sighs. Silent harp-forgotten loverRosa's love and song are over!

SONG. Why, the world are all thinking about it ;

And, as for myself, I can swear, If I fancied that heaven were without it,

I'd scarce feel a wish to go there. If Mahomet would but receive me,

And Paradise be as he paints, I'm greatly afraid, God forgive me!

I'd worship the eyes of his saints. But why should I think of a trip

To the Prophet's seraglio above, When Phillida gives me her lip,

As my own little heaven of love? Oh, Phillis ! that kiss may be sweeter

Than ever by mortal was given ;

But then 't is the creature Juxuriant and fresh

That my passion with ecstacy owns : For indeed, my dear madam, though fond of the flesh

I never was partial to bones!

In joy or grief, but most in love,
Our heart-strings musically move,

And thrill with like vibration.
How often have I heard thee say,
Thy vital pulse shall cease to play

When mine no more is moving! Since, now, to feel a joy alone Were worse to thee than feeling none :

Such sympathy in loving!
And, oh! how often in those eyes,
Which melting beam'd like azure skies

In dewy vernal weather-
How often have I raptured read
The burning glance, that silent said,

“ Now, love, we feel together ?”

ON THE DEATH OF A LADY. Sweet spirit! if thy airy sleep

Nor sees my tears, nor hears my sighs, Oh! I will weep, in luxury weep,

Till the last heart's-drop fills mine eyes. But if thy sainted soul can feel,

And mingles in our misery, Then, then, my breaking heart I'll seal

Thou shalt not hear one sigh from me! The beam of morn was on the stream,

But sullen clouds the day deform: Thou wert, indeed, that morning beam,

And death, alas ! that sullen storm. Thou wert not form'd for living here,

For thou wert kindred with the sky; Yet, yet we held thee all so dear,

We thought thou wert not form'd to die!

TO JULIA.
I saw the peasant's hand unkind

From yonder oak the ivy sever;
They seem'd in very being twined;

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 blooms 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 !

TO JULIA. Sweet is the dream, divinely sweet, When absent souls in fancy meet! At midnight, love, I 'll think of thee! At midnight, love! oh think of me! Think that thou givest thy dearest kiss, And I will think I feel the bliss : Then, if thou blush, that blush be mine; And, if I weep, the tear be thine !

TO-
Can I again that form caress,

Or on that lip in rapture twine ?
No, no! the lip that all may press

Shall never more be press'd by mine. Can I again that look recall

Which once could make me die for thee! No, no! the eye that burns on all

Shall never more be prized by me!

WRITTEN IN THE BLANK LEAF OF A

LADY'S COMMON-PLACE BOOK.
HERE is one leaf reserved for me,
From all thy sweet memorials free;
And here my simple song might tell
The feelings thou must guess so well.
But could I thus, within thy mind,
One little vacant corner find,
Where no impression yet is seen,
Where no memorial yet has been,
Oh! it should be my sweetest care
To write my name for ever there!

No, no! when my heart's in these amorous faints,

Which is seldom, thank Heaven ! the case ;For, by reading the Fathers, and Lives of the Saints,

I keep up a stock of good grace :

Oh! sweet is the tear on that languishing smile,

That smile which is loveliest then ; And if such are the drops that delight can beguile,

Thou shalt weep them again and again!

SONG.
Away with this pouting and sadness!

Sweet girl! will you never give o'er ?
I love you, by Heaven! to madness,

And what can I swear to you more? Believe not the old woman's fable,

That oaths are as short as a kiss ; I'll love you as long as I'm able,

And swear for no longer than this. Then waste not the time with professions ;

For not to be blest when we can Is one of the darkest transgressions

That happen 'twixt woman and man.Pretty moralist! why thus beginning

My innocent warmth to reprove ? Heaven knows that I never loved sinning

Except little sinnings in love! If swearing, however, will do it,

Come, bring me the calendar, prayI vow by that lip I'll go through it,

And not miss a saint on my way. The angels shall help me to wheedle;

I'll swear upon every one
That e'er danced on the point of a needle,'

Or rode on a beam of the sun!
Oh! why should Platonic control, love,

Enchain an emotion so free?
Your soul, though a very sweet soul, love,

Will ne'er be sufficient for me. If you think, by this coolness and scorning,

To seem more angelic and bright, Be an angel, my love, in the morning,

But, oh! be a woman to-night!

RONDEAU. “Good night! good night !”—and is it so ? And must I from my Rosa go? Oh, Rosa! say“Good night!” once more, And I'll repeat it o'er and o'er, Till the first glance of dawning light Shall find us saying still, "Good night!" And still “Good night!" my Rosa sayBut whisper still," A minute stay;" And I will stay, and every minute Shall have an age of rapture in it. We'll kiss and kiss in quick delight, And murmur, while we kiss, “Good night!" “Good night!" you 'll murmur with a sigh, And tell me it is time to fly: And I will vow to kiss no more; Yet kiss you closer than before; Till slumber seal our weary sightAnd then, my love! my soul! “Good night!"

AN ARGUMENT TO ANY PHILLIS OR CHLOE. I've oft been told by learned friars,

That wishing and the crime are one, And Heaven punishes desires

As much as if the deed were done. If wishing damns us, you and I

Are damn'd to all our heart's content; Come then, at least we may enjoy

Some pleasure for our punishment!

TO ROSA. LIKE him who trusts to summer skies,

And puts his little bark to sea, Is he who, lured by smiling eyes,

Consigns his simple heart to thee: For fickle is the summer wind,

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

And then the wretched heart is lost!

TO ROSA.

TO ROSA.
OA! 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 a moment of bliss ?
Are they shed for that moment of blissful delight

Which dwells on her memory yet ?
Do they flow, like the dews of the amorous night,

From the warmth of the sun that has set ?

WRITTEN DURING ILLNESS. THE wisest soul, by anguish torn,

Will soon unlearn the lore it knew; And when the shrining casket 's worn,

The gem within will tarnish too. But love 's an essence of the soul,

Which sinks not with this chain of clay“ Which throbs beyond the chill control

Of withering pain or pale decay. And surely when the touch of death

Dissolves the spirit's mortal ties, Love still attends the soaring breath,

And makes it purer for the skies ! Oh, Rosa!, when, to seek its sphere,

My soul shall leave this orb of men ! That love it found so blissful here

Shall be its best of blisses then! And, as in fabled dreams of old,

Some airy genius, child of time!

1 I believe Mr. Little alluded here to a famous question among the early schoolmen : "how many thousand angels could dance upon the point of a very fine needle, without jostling one another ?" If he could have been thinking of the schools while he was writing this song, we cannot say "canit indoctum."