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Still, as she bids those thrilling notes aspire
Making my fond attuned heart his lyre"
Thy honor'd form, my Friend, shall re-appear,
And I will thank thee with a raptur'd tear.

TO A PRIMROSE.

THE FIRST SEEN IN THE SEASON.

"nitens et roboris expers

Turget et insolida est: at spe delectat."-OVID.

THY smiles I note, sweet early flower,
That, peeping from thy rustic bower,
The festive news to earth dost bring,
A fragrant messenger of Spring!

But, tender blossom! why so pale?
Dost hear stern Winter in the gale?
And didst thou tempt the ungentle sky
To catch one vernal glance and die?

Such the wan lustre sickness wears,
When health's first feeble beam appears;
So languid are the smiles that seek
To settle on the careworn cheek,

When timorous hope the head uprears,
Still drooping and still moist with tears,
If through dispersing grief be seen
Of bliss the heavenly spark serene.

1796.

ON THE CHRISTENING OF A FRIEND'S CHILD.

THIS day among the faithful placed,

And fed with fontal manna,

O with maternal title graced,

Dear Anna's dearest Anna!

While others wish thee wise and fair,
A maid of spotless fame,

I'll breathe this more compendious prayer,—
May'st thou deserve thy name!

Thy mother's name-a potent spell,-
That bids the virtues hie
From mystic grove and living cell,
Confess'd to Fancy's eye ;—

Meek quietness without offence ;
Content in homespun kirtle ;
True love; and true love's innocence,
White blossom of the myrtle!

Associates of thy name, sweet child !
These virtues may'st thou win ;

With face as eloquently mild
To say, they lodge within.

So, when, her tale of days all flown,
Thy mother shall be mist here;
When Heaven at length shall claim its own,
And angels snatch their sister,

Some hoary-headed friend perchance
May gaze with stifled breath,
And oft, in momentary trance,
Forget the waste of death.

Even thus a lovely rose I view'd,
In summer-swelling pride;

Nor mark'd the bud, that, green and rude,
Peep'd at the rose's side.

It chanc'd I pass'd again that way
In autumn's latest hour,

And wond'ring saw the self-same spray
Rich with the self-same flower.

Ah! fond deceit ! the rude, green bud,
Alike in shape, place, name,

Had bloom'd where bloom'd the parent stud,

Another, and the same!

1796.

MUTUAL PASSION.

ALTERED AND MODERNIZED FROM AN OLD POET.

I LOVE and he loves me again,

Yet dare I not tell who :

For if the nymphs should know my swain,

I fear they'd love him too.

Yet while my joy's unknown,

Its

rosy buds are but half blown ;

What no one with me shares, seems scarce my own.

I'll tell, that if they be not glad,
They yet may envy me;

But then, if I grow jealous mad,

And of them pitied be,

"Twould vex me worse than scorn!

And yet it cannot be forborne,

Unless my heart would like my thoughts be torn.

He is, if they can find him, fair

And fresh, and fragrant too;

As after rain the summer air,
And looks as lilies do,

That are this morning blown!

Yet, yet I doubt, he is not known, Yet, yet I fear to have him fully shown.

But he hath eyes so large and bright,
Which none can see and doubt

That Love might thence his torches light
Tho' Hate had put them out!
But then to raise my fears,

His voice-what maid so ever hears
Will be my rival, tho' she have but ears.

I'll tell no more! yet I love him,
And he loves me; yet so,

That never one low wish did dim

Our love's pure light, I know—

In each so free from blame

That both of us would gain new fame

If love's strong fears would let me tell his name.

From the edition of 1817.

FROM A YOUNG LADY.

She had lost her silver thimble, and her complaint being accidentally overheard by him, her friend, he immediately sent her four others to take her choice of.

As oft mine eye with careless glance
Has gallop'd through some old romance,
Of speaking Birds, and Steeds with wings,
Giants and Dwarfs and Fiends and Kings;
Beyond the rest with more attentive care
I've lov'd to read of elfin-favor'd Fair-
How if she long'd for aught beneath the sky
And suffer'd to escape one votive sigh,
Wafted along on viewless pinions aery
It lay'd itself obsequious at her Feet!

Such things, I thought, one might not hope to meet
Save in the dear delicious land of Faery!

But now (by proof I know it well)
There's still some peril in free wishing—
Politeness is a licensed spell,

And you, dear Sir! the arch-magician.

You much perplex'd me by the various set,
They were indeed an elegant quartette!
My mind went to and fro, and waver'd long :
At length I've chosen (Samuel thinks me wrong)
That, around whose azure rim

Silver figures seem to swim,

Like fleece-white clouds, that on the skiey Blue,
Waked by no breeze, the self-same shapes retain ;