And here the old man ceased-a winged train
Of nymphs and genii led him from our eyes.
The fair illusion fled! and, as I wak'd,
I knew my visionary soul had been
Among that people of aerial dreams
Who live upon the burning galaxy!*

ΤΟ

THE world had just begun to steal
Each hope, that led me lightly ou,
I felt not, as I us'd to feel,

And life grew dark and love was gone!
No eye to mingle sorrow's tear,

No lip to mingle pleasure's breath,
No tongue to call me kind and dear-
'Twas gloomy, and I wish'd for death
But when I saw that gentle eye,

Oh! something seem'd to tell me then,
That I was yet too young to die,

And hope and bliss might bloom again!

With every beamy smile, that crost

Your kindling cheek, you lighted home
Some feeling, which my heart had lost,

And peace, which long had learn'd to roam !

"Twas then indeed so sweet to live,

Hope look'd so new and love so kind,

That, though I weep, I still forgive

The ruin, which they've left behind!

I could have lov'd you-oh so well!-
The dream, that wishing boyhood knows,
Is but a bright, beguiling spell,

Which only lives while passion glows:
But, when this early flush declines,

When the heart's vivid morning fleets,
You know not then how close it twines
Round the first kindred soul it meets!

Yes, yes, I could have lov'd, as one

Who, while his youth's enchantments fall,

Finds something dear to rest upon,

Which pays him for the loss of all!

According to Pythagoras, the People of Dreams are souls collected together in the galaxy

TO MRS

To see thee every day that came,
And find thee every day the same,
In pleasure's smile or sorrow's tear
Benign, consoling, ever dear!
To meet thee early, leave thee late,
Had been so long my bliss, my fate,
That life, without this cheering ray,
Which came, like sunshine, every day,
And all my pain, my sorrow chac'd,
Is now a lone and loveless waste.-
Where are the chords she us'd to touch?
Where are the songs she lov'd so much?
The songs are hush'd, the chords are still
And so, perhaps, will every thrill
Of friendship soon be lull'd to rest,
Which late I wak'd in Anna's breast
Yet no-the simple notes I play'd
On memory's tablet soon may fade;
The songs, which Anna lov'd to hear,
May all be lost on Anna's ear;

But friendship's sweet and fairy strain
Shall ever in her heart remain ;
Nor memory lose nor time impair
The sympathies which tremble there!

TO LADY H

ON AN OLD RING FOUND AT TUNBRIDGE WELLS.

'Tunnebrige est à la même distance de Londres que Fontainebleau l'est de Paris. Ce qu'il y à de beau et de galant dans l'un et dans l'autre sèxe s'y rassemble au tems des eaux. La compagnie, &c. &c."-See Mémoires de Grammont, second part, chap. iii.

TUNBRIDGE WELLS, August 1805.

WHEN Grammont grac'd these happy springs,

And Tunbridge saw, upon her Pantiles,

The merriest wight of all the kings

That ever rul'd these gay, gallant isles:

Like us, by day, they rode, they walk'd,
At eve they did as we may do,
And Grammont just like Spencer talk'd
And lovely Stewart smil'd like you!

7.

The only different trait is this,

That woman then, if man beset her, Was rather given to saying "yes," Because, as yet, she knew no better! Each night they held a coterie,

Where every fear to slumber charm'd, Lovers were all they ought to be,

And husbands not the least alarm'd!
They call'd up all their school-day pranks,
Nor thought it much their sense beneath,
To play at riddles, quips, and cranks,

And lords show'd wit, and ladies teeth.
As-"Why are husbands like the Mint?"
Because, forsooth, a husband's duty
Is just to set the name and print

66

That give a currency to beauty.

Why is a garden's wilder'd maze

Like a young widow, fresh and fair?".

Because it wants some hand to raise

The weeds, which "have no business there!"

'Twas one of those facetious nights

That Grammont gave this forfeit ring For breaking grave conundrum rites,

Or punning ill, or—some such thing;

From whence it can be fairly trac'd

Through many a branch and many a bough, From twig to twig, until it grac'd

The snowy hand that wears it now.

All this I'll prove, and then-to you,
Oh Tunbridge! and your springs ironical,
I swear by Heathcote's eye of blue

To dedicate th' important chronicle.
Long may your ancient inmates give
Their mantles to your modern lodgers,
And Charles's loves in Heathcote live,
And Charles's bards revive in Rogers!

Let no pedantic fools be there,

For ever be those fops abolish'd

With heads as wooden as thy ware,

And, Heaven knows! not half so polish'd.

But still receive the mild, the gay,
The few, who know the rare delight

Of reading Grammont every day,

And acting Grammont every night

ΤΟ

NEVER mind how the pedagogue proses,
You want not antiquity's stamp,
The lip, that's so scented by roses,
Oh! never must smell of the lamp.
Old Cloe, whose withering kisses
Have long set the loves at defiance,
Now, done with the science of blisses,
May fly to the blisses of science!
Young Sappho, for want of employments
Alone o'er her Ovid may melt,
Condemn'd but to read of enjoyments,
Which wiser Corinna had felt.
But for you to be buried in books-
Oh, Fanny! they're pitiful sages,
Who could not in one of your looks
Read more than in millions of pages
Astronomy finds in your eye

Better light than she studies above,
And Music must borrow your sigh
As the melody dearest to love.

In Ethics-'tis you that can check,

In a minute, their doubts and their quarrels.

Oh! show but that mole on your neck,

And 'twill soon put an end to their morals.

Your Arithmetic only can trip

When to kiss and to count you endeavour;

But Eloquence glows on your lip

When you swear, that you'll love me for ever

Thus you see, what a brilliant alliance

Of arts is assembled in you

A course of more exquisite science

Man never need wish to go through!

And, oh!-if a fellow like me

May confer a diploma of hearts,

With my lip thus I seal your degree,

My divine little Mistress of Arts!

DID NOT.

"TWAS a new feeling-something more Than we had dared to own before

Which then we hid not;

We saw it in each other's eye,

And wish'd, in every half-breath'd sigh,
To speak, but did not.

She felt my lips' impassion'd touch
'Twas the first time I dared so much,
And yet she chid not;

But whisper'd o'er my burning brow,
"Oh! do you doubt I love you now?"
Sweet soul! I did not.

AT NIGHT.*

Ar night, when all is still around,
How sweet to hear the distant sound

Of footstep, coming soft and light!
What pleasure in the anxious beat,
With which the bosom flies to meet

That foot that comes so soft at night!

And then, at night, how sweet to say
""Tis late, my love!" and chide delay,
Though still the western clouds are bright,

Oh! happy, too, the silent press,

The eloquence of mute caress,

With those we love exchang'd at night!

TO LORD VISCOUNT STRANGFORD.

ABOARD THE PHAETON FRIGATE, OFF THE AZORES, BY MOONLIGHT.

SWEET Moon! if like Crotona's sage,t

By any spell my hand could dare

To make thy disk its ample page,

And write my thoughts, my wishes there

How many a friend, whose careless eye

Now wanders o'er that starry sky,

Should smile, upon thy orb to meet

The recollection, kind and sweet,

The reveries of fond regret,

The promise never to forget,

These lines allude to a curious lamp, which has for its device a Cupid,

with the words "At Night" written over him.

+ Pythagoras

R