I'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!

NONSENSE.

GOOD reader! if you e'er have seen,

When Phoebus 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!

TO JULIA.

ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

WHEN Time was entwining the garland of years,
Which to crown my beloved was given,
Though some of the leaves might be sullied with tears,
Yet the flowers were all gather'd in heaven!

And long may this garland be sweet to the eye,
May its verdure for ever be new!
Young Love shall enrich it with many a sigh,
And Pity shall nurse it with dew!

ELEGIAC STANZAS.'

How sweetly could I lay my head Within the cold grave's silent breast; Where Sorrow's tears no more are shed, No more the ills of life molest.

For, ah! my heart, how very soon

The glittering dreams of youth are past! And, long before it reach its noon, The sun of life is overcast.

1 This poem, and some others of the same pensive cast, we may suppose, were the result of the few melancholy moments which a life so short and so pleasant as that of the author could have allowed.-E.

TO ROSA.

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

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 calin 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!

LOUD sung the wind in the ruins above, Which murmur'd the warnings of time o'er our head;

While fearless we offer'd devotions to Love,

The rude rock our pillow, the rushes our bed. Damp was the chill of the wintry air,

But it made us cling closer, and warmly unite; Dread was the lightning, and horrid its glare,

But it show'd me my Julia in languid delight.

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

frown:

Her sighs were as sweet, and her murmurs as dear, As if she lay lull'd on a pillow of down!

SONG.

JESSY on a bank was sleeping,

A flower beneath her bosom lay; Love, upon her slumber creeping, Stole the flower and flew away! Pity, then, poor Jessy's ruin,

Who, becalm'd by Slumber's wing, Never felt what Love was doingNever dream'd of such a thing.

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.

THY

TO A LADY.

ON HER SINGING.

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?

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;
Till both a glow congenial felt,
And mingled into one'

WRITTEN IN A COMMON-PLACE BOOK,

CALLED "THE BOOK OF FOLLIES;"

In which every one that opened it should contribute something.

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 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 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 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!

WRITTEN IN THE SAME. TO THE PRETTY LITTLE MRS. IMPROMPTU.

Magis venustatem an brevitatem mireris incertum est. Macrob. Sat. lib. ii. cap. 2.

THIS journal of folly 's an emblem of me;
But what book shall we find emblematic of thee?
Oh! shall we not say thou art Love's duodecimo?
None can be prettier, few can be less, you know.
Such a volume in sheets were a volume of charms;
Or, if bound, it should only be bound in our arms!

But kiss me, kiss me while I die,
And, oh! I live again!
Still, my love! with looking kill,
And, oh! revive with kisses still!

THE TEAR.

ON beds of snow the moonbeam slept,
And chilly was the midnight gloom,
When by the damp grave Ellen wept-
Sweet maid! it was her Lindor's tomb '

A warm tear gush'd-the wintry air
Congeal'd it as it flow'd away:
All night it lay an ice-drop there,
At morn it glitter'd in the ray!
An angel, wandering from her sphere,
Who saw this bright, this frozen gem,
To dew-eyed Pity brought the tear,
And hung it on her diadem!

ΤΟ

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!

And thou art Rosa's dear elect,

And thou hast won the lovely trifle; And I must bear repulse, neglect,

And I must all my anguish stifle : While thou for ever linger'st nigh, Scowling, muttering, gloating, mummning Like some sharp, busy, fretful fly, About a twinkling taper humming

TO JULIA WEEPING.

OH! 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.

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,

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,
A heart so much your own?

To you my soul's affections move
Devoutly, warmly true;
My life has been a task of love,

One long, long thought of you.
If all your tender faith is o'er,

If still my truth you'll try;
Alas! I know but one proof more,-
I'll bless your name, and die!

THE SHIELD.'

OH! did you not hear a voice of death? And did you not mark the paly form Which rode on the silver mist of the heath, And sung a ghostly dirge in the storm?

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? "T was not the death-bird's cry from the wood, Nor shivering fiend that hung in the blast; 'Twas the shade of Helderic-man of bloodIt screams for the guilt of days that are past!

See how the red, red lightning strays,

And scares the gliding ghosts of the heath!
Now on the leafless yew it plays,

Where hangs the shield of this son of death!
That shield is blushing with murderous stains;
Long has it hung from the cold yew's spray;
It is blown by storms and wash'd by rains,
But neither can take the blood away!

Oft by that yew, on the blasted field,

Demons dance to the red moon's light;

While the damp boughs creak, and the swinging shield

Sings to the raving spirit of night!

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 effuses, thrilling warm-
Yes, 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.-

1 This poem is perfectly in the taste of the present "his nam plebecula gaudet."-E.

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 woul
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 had 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 forge
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 wher
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!'

ELEGIAC STANZAS,

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY JULIA ON THE
DEATH OF HER BROTHER.

THOUGH Sorrow long has worn my heart;
Though every day I've counted o'er
Has brought a new and quickening smart
To wounds that rankled fresh before;
Though in my earliest life bereft

Of many a link by nature tied;
Though hope deceived, and pleasure left;
Though friends betray'd, and foes belied;

I still had hopes-for hope will stay
After the sunset of delight;
So like the star which ushers day,
We scarce can think it heralds night!

I hoped that, after all its strife,

My weary heart at length should rest, And, fainting from the waves of life, Find harbour in a brother's breast.

That brother's breast was warm with truth,
Was bright with honour's purest ray;
He was the dearest, gentlest youth-
Oh! why then was he torn away?

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!

For your dear little lips, to their destiny true,
Seem'd to know they were born for the use of an-
other;

And, to put me in mind of what I ought to do,
Were eternally biting and kissing each other.

And then you were darting from eyelids so sly,Half open, half shutting, such tremulous light: Let them say what they will, I could read in your eye More comical things than I ever shall write.

And oft, as we mingled our legs and our feet,
I felt a pulsation, and cannot tell whether
In yours or in mine-but I know it was sweet,
And I think we both felt it and trembled together.

At length when arrived, at our supper we sat,

I heard with a sigh, which had something of pain, That perhaps our last moment of meeting was that. And Fanny should go back to Timmol again.

Yet I swore not that I was in love with you Fanny, Oh, no! for I felt it could never be true;

I but said—what I've said very often to manyThere's few I would rather be kissing than you.

Then first did I learn that you once had believed
Some lover, the dearest and falsest of men ;
And so gently you spoke of the youth who deceived,
That I thought you perhaps might be tempted

again.

But you told me that passion a moment amused,
Was follow'd too oft by an age of repenting ;
And check'd me so softly that, while you refused,
Forgive me, dear girl, if I thought 't was consenting!

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;
Your excuse was a kiss, and a tear your reply-
I acknowledged them both, and I ask'd for no

more.

Was I right?-oh! I cannot believe I was wrong.
Poor Fanny is gone back to Timmol again;
And may Providence guide her uninjured along,
Nor scatter her path with repentance and pain!
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 hallow'd a nest!

A NIGHT THOUGHT. How oft a cloud with envious veil, Obscures your bashful light, Which seems so modestly to steal Along the waste of night!