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TO ROSA.

A far conserva, e cumulo d'amanti.- Past. Fid.

l'll ask him where's the veil of sleep

That used to shade thy looks of light ; And why those eyes their vigil keep,

When other suns are sunk in night. And I will say-her angel breast

Has never throbb'd with guilty sting; Her bosom is the sweetest nest

Where Slumber could repose his wing! And I will say–her cheeks of flame,

Which glow like roses in the sun, Have never felt a blush of shame,

Except for what her eyes have done! Then tell me, why, thou child of air !

Does Slumber from her eyelids rove? What is her heart's impassioned care ?—

Perhaps, oh, sylph! perhaps 't is love!

And are you then a thing of art,

Seducing all and loving none ?
And have I strove to gain a heart

Which every coxcomb thinks his own!
And do you, like the dotard's fire,

Which powerless of enjoying any,
Feeds its abortive sick desire,

By trifling impotent with many ?
Do you thus seek to flirt a number

And through a round of danglers run,
Because your heart's insipid slumber

Could never wake to feel for one.
Tell me at once if this be true,

And I shall cal my jealous breast ;
Shall learn to join the dangling crew,

And share your simpers with the rest.
But if your heart be not so free,

Oh! if another share that heart,
Tell not the damning tale to me,

But mingle mercy with your art
I'd rather think you black as hell,

Than find you to be all divine,
And know that heart could love so well,

Yet know that heart would not be mine!

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NONSENSE.
Good reader! if you e'er have seen,

When Phæbus hastens to his pillow,
The mermaids, with their tresses green,

Dancing upon the western billow: If you have seen, at twilight dim, When the lone spirit's vesper hymn

Floats wild along the winding shore : If you have seen, through mist of eve, The fairy train their ringlets weave, Glancing along the spangled green :

If you have seen all this, and more, God bless me! what a deal you've seen!

LOVE IN A STORM

head;

Quam juvat immites ventos audire cubantem,

Et dominam tenero continuisge sinu. Tibullus.
TO JULIA.

LOUD sung the wind in the ruins above,
ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

Which murmur'd the warnings of time o'er our
WHEN Time was entwining the garland of years,
Which to crown my beloved was given,

While fearless we offer'd devotions to Love, Though some of the leaves might be sullied with tears,

The rude rock our pillow, the rushes our bed. Yet the flowers were all gather'd in heaven!

Damp was the chill of the wintry air, And long may this garland be sweet to the eye,

But it made us cling closer, and warmly unite; May its verdure for ever be new!

Dread was the lightning, and horrid its glare, Young Love shall enrich it with many a sigh,

But it show'd me my Julia in languid delight. And Pity shall nurse it with dew!

To my bosom she nestled, and felt not a fear,
Though the shower did beat, and the tempest dia

frown:
ELEGIAC STANZAS.'

Her sighs were as sweet, and her murmurs as dear, How sweetly could I lay my head

As if she lay lull'd on a pillow of down!
Within the cold grave's silent breast;
Where Sorrow's tears no more are shed,
No more the ills of life molest.

SONG.
For, ah! my heart, how very soon

Jessy on a bank was sleeping,
The glittering dreams of youth are past !

A flower beneath her bosom lay;
And, long before it reach its noon,

Love, upon her slumber creeping,
The sun of life is overcast.

Stole the flower and few away!

Pity, then, poor Jessy's ruin, 1 This poem, and some others of the same pensive cast, Who, becalm’d by Slumber's wing. we may suppose, were the result of the few melancholy

Never felt what Love was doingmoments which a life so short

and so pleasant us that of the author could bare allowed.-E.

Never dream'd of such a thing.

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SONG
When the heart's feeling

Burns with concealing,
Glances will tell what we fear to confess :

Oh! what an anguish

Silent to languish, Could we not look all we wish to express!

TO A LADY.

ON HER SINGING.

When half-expiring,

Restless, desiring, Lovers wish something, but must not say what,

Looks tell the wanting,

Looks tell the granting,
Looks betray all that the heart would be at.

The song has taught my heart to feel

Those soothing thoughts of heavenly love, Which o'er the sainted spirits steal

When list'ning to the spheres above ! When, tired of life and misery,

I wish to sigh my latest breath, Oh, Emma! I will fly to thee,

And thou shalt sing me into death! And if along thy lip and cheek

That smile of heavenly softness play, Which,-ah! forgive a mind that 's weak,

So oft has stolen my mind away; Thou'lt seem an angel of the sky,

That comes to charm me into bliss : I'll gaze and die—who would not die,

If death were half so sweet as this?

THE BALLAD.' Thou hast sent me a flowery band,

And told me 't was fresh from the field; That the leaves were untouch'd by the hand,

And the purest of odours would yield. And indeed it was fragrant and fair;

But, if it were handled by thee, It would bloom with a livelier air,

And would surely be sweeter to me! Then take it, and let it entwine

Thy tresses, so flowing and bright; And each little flow'ret will shine

More rich than a gem to my sight.

A DREAM.
I thought this heart consuming lay

On Cupid's burning shrine:
I thought he stole thy heart away,

And placed it near to mine.
I saw thy heart begin to melt,

Like ice before the sun;
THI both a glow congenial felt,

And mingled into one!

1 This ballad was probably suggested by the following Epigram in Martial:

Intactas quare mittis mihi, Polla, coronas,
A te vexatas malo tenere rosas.

Epig. xc. lib. 11.-E.

WRITTEN IN A COMMON-PLACE BOOK,

CALLED “THE BOOK OF FOLLIES ;" In which every one that opened it should contribute

something.

But kiss me, kiss me while I die,

And, oh! I live again!
Sull, my love! with looking kill,

And, oh! revive with kisses still!

TO THE BOOK OF FOLLIES.

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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 follies 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 sollies 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 shone,
White as the snowings of that Heaven
By which those hours of peace were given
But now no longer-such, oh! such
The blast of Disappointment's touch!
No longer now those hours appear;
Each leaf is sullied by a tear :
Blank, blank is every page with care;
Not e'en a folly brightens there.
Will they yet brighten ?-Never, never!
Then shut the book, O God! for ever!

TO

In bona cur quisquam tertius ista venit ?- Ovid

So! Rosa turns her back on me,
Thou walking monument ! for thee;
Whose visage, like a grave-stone scribbled,
With vanity bedaub'd, befribbled,
Tells only to the reading eye,
That underneath corrupting lie,
Within thy heart's contagious tomb
(As in a cemetery's gloom,)
Suspicion, rankling to infection,
And all the worms of black reflection!

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SONG.
DEAR! in pity do not speak;

In your eyes I read it all,
In the flushing of your cheek,

In those tears that fall.
Yes, yes, my soul! I see

You love, you live for only me! Beam, yet beam that killing eve, Bid me expire in luscious pain;

SONG. Have you not seen the timid tear

Steal trembling from mine eye

Have you not mark'd the flush of fear,

Such was my love, and many a time,
Or caught the murmur'd sigh?

When sleep has given thee to my breast,
And can you think my love is chill,

And thou hast seem'd to share the crime
Nor fix'd on you alone ?

Which made thy lover wildly blest;
And can you rend, by doubting still,

E'en then, in all that rich delusion,
A heart so much your own ?

When, by voluptuous visions fired,

My soul, in rapture's warm confusion,
To you my soul's affections move

Has on a phantom's lip expired!
Devoutly, warmly true;

E'en then some purer thoughts woul:
My life has been a task of love,

Amid my senses' warm excess;
One long, long thought of you.

And at the moment-oh! e'en then
If all your tender faith is o'er,

I've started from thy melting press,
If still my truth you'll try;

And blush'd for all I've dared to feel,
Alas! I know but one proof more,-

Yet sigh'd to feel it all again!
I'll bless your name, and die !

Such was my love, and still, O still
I might have calm'd the unholy thrill :

My heart might be a taintless shrine,
THE SHIELD.'

And thou its votive saint should be :
Oh! did you not hear a voice of death ?

There, there I'd make thee all divine, And did you not mark the paly form

Myself divine in honouring thee. Which rode on the silver mist of the heath,

But, oh! that night! that fatal night! And sung a ghostly dirge in the storm ?

When both bewilder'd, both betray'd,

We sank beneath the flow of soul, Was it a wailing bird of the gloom,

Which for a moment mock'd control; Which shrieks on the house of woe all night? And on the dangerous kiss delay'd, Or a shivering fiend that flew to a lomb,

And almost yielded to delight ! To howl and to feed till the glance of light?

God! how I wish'd, in that wild hour, 'T was not the death-bird's cry from the wood,

That lips alone, thus stamp'd with heat

Had for a moment all the power Nor shivering fiend that hung in the blast ; 'T was the shade of Helderic-man of blood

To make our souls effusing meet! It screams for the guilt of days that are past !

That we might mingle by the breath

In all of love's delicious death; See how the red, red lightning strays,

And in a kiss at once be blest, And scares the gliding ghosts of the heath!

As, oh! we trembled at the rest ! Now on the leafless yew it plays,

Pity me, love! I'll pity thee, Where hangs the shield of this son of death!

If thou indeed hast felt like me.

All, all my bosom's peace is o'er! That shield is blushing with murderous stains ;

At night, which was my hour of calm, Long has it hung from the cold yew's spray;

When from the page of classic lore, It is blown by storms and wash'd by rains,

From the pure fount of ancient lay, But neither can take the blood away!

My soul had drawn the placid balm Of by that yew, on the blasted field,

Which charm'd its little griefs away; Demons dance to the red moon's light;

Ah! there I find that balm no more. While the damp boughs creak, and the swinging

Those spells, which make us oft forge shield

The fleeting troubles of the day,
Sings to the raving spirit of night!

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,
TO MRS.

While my brain maddens, where, O wher
Yes, Heaven can witness how I strove

Is that serene consoling prayer, To love thee with a spirit's love;

Which once has harbinger'd my rest, To make thy purer wish my own,

When the still soothing voice of Heaven And mingle with thy mind alone.

Has seem'd to whisper in my breast, Oh! I appeal to those pure dreams

“ Sleep on, thy errors are forgiven !" In which my soul has hung on thee,

No, though I still in semblance pray, And I've forgot thy witching form,

My thoughts are wandering far away, And I've forgot the liquid beams

And e'en the name of Deity
That eye effuses, thrilling warm-

Is murmur'd out in sighs for thee!'
Yes, yes, forgot each sensual charm,
Each madd’ning spell of luxury,
That could seduce my soul's desires,

1 This irregular recurrence of the rhymes is adopted from And bid it throb with guiltier fires.

the light poetry of the French, and is, I think, particularly suited to express the varieties of feeling. In gentler emo

tions, the verses may flow periodic and regular; and in the 1 This poem is perfectly in the taste of the present day-transition to violent passion, can assume all the animated "his nam plebecula gaudet."-E.

abruptness of blank verse. Besides, by dispensing with the

For your dear little lips, to their destiny true,
ELEGIAC STANZAS,

Seem'd to know they were born for the use of anBUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY JULIA ON THE

other; DEATH OF HER BROTHER.

And, to put me in mind of what I ought to do,
THOUGH sorrow long has worn my heart;

Were eternally biting and kissing each other.
Though every day I've counted o'er
Has brought a new and quickening smart

And then you were darting from eyelids so sly,
To wounds that rankled fresh before ;

Half open, half shutting,—such tremulous light: Let them

say what they will, I could read in your eye Though in my earliest life bereft

More comical things than I ever shall write.
Of many a link by nature tied ;
Though hope deceived, and pleasure left;

And oft, as we mingled our legs and our feet,
Though friends betray'd, and foes belied ;

I felt a pulsation, and cannot tell whether

In yours or in mine—but I know it was sweet, I still had hopes—for hope will stay

And I think we both felt it and trembled together. After the sunset of delight; So like the star which ushers day,

At length when arrived, at our supper we sat, We scarce can think it heralds night!

I heard with a sigh, which had something of pain,

That perhaps our last moment of meeting was that. I hoped that, after all its strife,

And Fanny should go back to Timmol again.
My weary heart at length should rest,
And, fainting from the waves of life,

Yet I swore not that I was in love with you Fanny, Find harbour in a brother's breast.

Oh, no! for I felt it could never be true ;

I but said—what I've said very often to manyThat brother's breast was warm with truth,

There's few I would rather be kissing than you. Was bright with honour's purest ray ; He was the dearest, gentlest youth

Then first did I learn that you once had believed Oh! why then was he torn away?

Some lover, the dearest and falsest of men ; He should have stay'd, have linger'd here,

And so gently you spoke of the youth who deceived, To calm his Julia's every woe;

That I thought you perhaps might be templed

again. He should have chased each bitter tear, And not have caused those tears to flow.

But you told me that passion a moment amused,

Was follow'd too oft by an age of repenting; We saw his youthful soul expand

And check'd me so softly that, while you refused, In blooms of genius, nursed by taste; While Science, with a fostering hand,

Forgive me, dear girl, if I thought 't was consenting! Upon his brow her chaplet placed.

And still I entreated, and still you denied, We saw his gradual opening mind

Till I almost was made to believe you sincere; Enrich'd by all the graces dear;

Though I found that, in bidding me leave you, you Enlighten'd, social, and refined,

sigh'd, In friendship firm, in love sincere.

And when you repulsed me, 't was done with a

tear. Such was the youth we loved so well; Such were the hopes that fate denied

In vain did I whisper, “There 's nobody nigh;" We loved, but, ah! we could not tell

In vain with the tremors of passion implore; How deep, how dearly, till he died !

Your excuse was a kiss, and a tear your reply

I acknowledged them both, and I ask'd for no Close as the fondest links could strain,

more. Twined with my very heart he grew; And by that fate which breaks the chain,

Was I right ?-oh! I cannot believe I was wrong. The heart is almost broken too!

Poor Fanny is gone back to Timmol again ; And may Providence guide her uninjured along,

Nor scatter her path with repentance and pain !
FANNY OF TIMMOL.

By Heaven! I would rather for ever forswear
A MAIL-COACH ADVENTURE.

The Elysium that dwells on a beautiful breast,

Than alarm for a moment the peace that is there, Quadrigis petimus bene vivere. Horace. Or banish the dove from so hallow'd a nest ! Sweet Fanny of Timmol! when first you came in

To the close little carriage in which I was hurl'd, I thought to myself, if it were not a sin,

A NIGHT THOUGHT. I could teach you the prettiest tricks in the world. How oft a cloud with envious veil,

Obscures your bashful light, limits of distich and stanza, it allows an interesting suspen

Which seems so modestly to steal sion of the sentiment.-E.

Along the waste of night!

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