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Those eyes of hers, that floating shine,

Like diamonds in some Eastern river; That kiss, for which, if worlds were mine,

A world for every kiss I'd give her.

I THOUGHT this heart enkindled lay

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

And placed it near to mine.

That frame so delicate, yet warm'd

With flushes of love's genial hue ;A mould transparent, as if form’d

To let the spirit's light shine through.

I saw thy heart begin to melt,

Like ice before the sun; Till both a glow congenial selt,

And mingled into one !

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But when, alas, I turn'd the theme,

And when of vows and oaths I spoke, Of truth and hope's seducing dream

The chord beneath my finger broke.

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With all my soul, then, let us part,

Since both are anxious to be free; And I will send you home your heart,

And you will send back mine to me.

False harp! false woman such, oh, such

Are lutes too frail and hearts too willing; Any hand, whate'er its touch,

Can set their chords or pulses thrilling.

We've had some happy hours together,

But joy must often change its wing ; And spring would be but gloomy weather,

If we had nothing else but spring.

And when that thrill is most awake,

And when you think Heav'n's joys await you The nymph will change, the chord will break

Oh Love, oh Music, how I hate you!

'Tis not that I expect to find

A more devoted, fond, and true one, With rosier cheek or sweeter mind

Enough for me that she's a new one.


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Along the rocks of Crissa's shore,

To hymn the fading fires of day;
No more to Tempé's distant vale

In holy musings shall wo roam,
Through summer's glow and winter's gale,

To bear the mystic chaplets home.? 'Twas then my soul's expanding zeal,

By nature warm’d and led by thee,
In every breeze was taught to feel

The breathings of a Deity.
Guide of my heart! still hovering round,

Thy looks, thy words are still my own-
I see thee raising from the ground

Some laurel, by the winds o'erthrown, And hear thee say, “This humble bough

· Was planted for a doom divine ; “ And, though it droop in languor now,

How oft I've heard thee fondly 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 :

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"Shall flourish on the Delphic shrine ! * Thus, in the vale of earthly sense,

“Though sunk awhile the spirit lies, * A viewless hand shall cull it thence,

"To bloom immortal in the skies !"

So twinn'd aro we in loving !


On beds of snow the moonbeam slept,

And chilly was the midnight gloom,
When by the damp grave Ellen wept-

Fond 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, wand'ring from her sphere,

Who saw this bright, this frozen gem,
To dew-eyed Pity brought the tear,

And hung it on her diadem!


All that the young should feel and know,

By thee was taught so sweetly well, Thy words fell soft as vernal snow,

And all was brightness where they fell !
Fond soother of my infant tear,

Fond sharer of my infant joy,
Is not thy shade still ling'ring here?

Am I not still thy soul's employ?
Oh yes-and, as in former days,

When, meeting on the sacred mount, Our nymphs awaked their choral lays,

And danced around Cassotis' fount; As then, 'twas all thy wish and care,

That mine should be the simplest mien, My lyre and voice the sweetest there,

My foot the lightest o'er the green:
So still, each look and step to mould,

Thy guardian care is round me spread,
Arranging every snowy fold,
And guiding every mazy

And, when I lead the hymning choir,

Thy spirit still, unseen and free,
Hovers between my lip and lyre,

And weds them into harmony.
Flow, Plistus, flow, thy murmuring wave

Shall never drop its silv'ry tear ['poni so pure, so blest a grave,

To memory so entirely dear!


My love and I, the other day,
Within a myrtle arbor lay,
When near us, from a rosy bed,
A little Snake put forth its head.

“ Soe,” said the maid, with thoughtful eyes
• Yonder the fatal emblem lies!
“Who could expect such hidden harm
“ Beneath the rose's smiling charm ?"

* The laurel, for the common uses of the temple, for adorn the temple was originally constructed; and Plutarch says, in
ing the altars and sweeping the pavement, was supplied by a his Dialogue on Music, "The youth who brings the Tempie
tree near the fountain of Castalia ; but upon all important laurel to Delphi is always attended by a player on the flute.'
occasions, they sent to Tempe for their laurel. We find, in Alla unu kal TW Karaxou covri naidu inv TELTIKNY l'aprav
Prasanias that this valley supplied the branches, of which εις Δελφους παρομαρτει αυλητης. .

Never did grave remark occur Less à-propos than this from her.

LOVE AND MARRIAGE. Eque brevi verbo ferre perenne malum.

SECUNDUS, eleg STILL the question I must party,

Still a wayward truant prove : Where I love, I must not marry;

Where I marry, cannot love.

I rose to kill the snake, but she, Half-smiling, pray'd it might not be. • No," said the maiden—and, alas,

Her eyes spoke volumes, while she said it* Long as the snake is in the grass,

“One may, perhaps, have cause to dread it: “ But, when its wicked eyes appear,

“ And when we know for what they wink so, “ One must be very simple, dear,

“ To let it wound one-don't you think so ?”

Were she fairest of creation,

With the least presuming mind; Learned without affectation;

Not deceitful, yet refined;

Wise enough, tat never rigid;

Gay, but not too lightly free; Chaste as snow, and yet not frigid;

Fond, yet satisfied with me:

TO ROSA, Is the song of Rosa mute ? Once such lays inspired her lute ! Never doth a sweeter song Steal the breezy lyro along, When the wind, in odors dying, Woos it with enamor'd sighing.

Were she all this ten times over,

All that heav'n to earth allows, I should be too much her lover

Ever to become her spouse.

Love will never bear enslaving ;

Summer garments suit him best ; Bliss itself is not worth having,

If we're by compulsion blest.

Is my Rosa's lute unstrung? Once a tale of peace it sung To her lover's throbbing breastThen was he divinely blest ! Ah! but Rosa loves no more, Therefore Rosa's song is o'er ; And her lute neglected lies ; And her boy forgotten sighs. Silent lute-forgotten loverRosa's love and song are over!

I FILL'D to thee, to thee I drank,

I nothing did but drink and fill; The bowl by turns was bright and blank, 'Twas drinking, filling, drinking still


At length I bid an artist paint

Thy image in this ample cup, That I might see the dimpled saint,

To whom I quaff”d my nectar up.


Sic juvat perire. WHEN wearied wretches sink to sleep,

How heavenly soft their slumbers lie! How sweet is death to those who weep,

To those who weep and long to die !

Behold, how bright that purple lip

Now blushes through the wave at mo; Every roseate drop I sip

Is just like kissing wine from thee.

Saw you the soft and grassy bed,

Where flow’rets deck the green earth's breast ? 'Tis there I wish to lay my head,

"Tis there I wish to sleep at rest.

And still I drink the more for this;

For, ever when the draught I drain, Thy lip invites another kiss,

And—in the nectar flows again.

Oh, let not tears embalm my tomb,

None but the dews at twilight given ! Oh, let not sighs disturb the gloom,

None but the whisp'ring winds of heaven!

So, here's to thee, my gentle dear,

may that eyelid never shine Beneath a darker, bitterer tear

Than bathes it in this bowl of mine!

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I'll ask the sylph who round thee flies,

And in thy breath his pinion dips, Who suns him in thy radiant eyes,

And faints upon thy sighing lips:

Che con le lor bugie pajon divini. Mauro d'Arcano.

I do confess, in many a sigh,
My lips have breathed you many a lie ;
And who, with such delights in view,
Would lose them, for a lie or two?

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!

Nay,-look not thus, with brow reprovings Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving. If half we tell the girls were true, If half we swear to think and do, Were aught but lying's bright illusion, This world would be in strange confusion. If ladies' eyes were, every one, As lovers swear, a radiant sun, Astronomy must leave the skies, To learn her lore in ladies' eyes. Oh, no-believe me, lovely girl, When nature turns your teeth to pearl, Your neck to snow, your eyes to fire, Your amber locks to golden wire, Then, only then can Heaven decree, That you should live for only me, Or I for you, as night and morn, We've swearing kiss'd, and kissing sworn.

And I will say–her cheeks that flush,

Like vernal roses in the sun, Hare ne'er by shame been taught to blush,

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 impassion'd care ?

Perhaps, oh sylph! perhaps, 'tis love.

And now, my gentle hints to clear, For once I'll tell you truth, my dear. Whenever you may chance to meet Some loving youth, whose love is sweet, Long as you're false and he believes you, Long as you trust and he deceives you, So long the blissful bond endures, And while he lies, his heart is yours: But, oh! you've wholly lost the youth The instant that he tells you truth.

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And often, as she smiling said,

In fancy's hour, thy gentle rays

Shall guide my visionary tread

Through poesy's enchanting maze.

Thy flame shall light the page refined, Dulcis conscia lectuli lucerna.

Where still we catch the Chian's breat MARTIAL., lib. xiv. epig. 39.

Where still the bard, though cold in de “Ou! love the Lamp,” (my Mistress said,) Has left his soul unquench'd behind. “ The faithful Lamp that, many a night,

Or, o'er thy humbler legend shine, “ Beside thy Lais' lonely bed

Oh man of Ascra's dreary glades! “ Has kept its little watch of light.

To whom the nightly warbling Nine

A wand of inspiration gave, “ Full often has it seen her weep,

Pluck'd from the greenest tree, that shad “ And fix her eye upon its flame,

The crystal of Castalia's wave. Till, weary, she has mink to sleep, “Repeating her beloved's name.

Then, turning to a purer lore,

We'll cull the sages' deep-hid store ; Then love the Lamp—'twill often lead

From Science steal her golden clew, “Thy step through learning's sacred way; And every mystic path pursue, " And when those studious eyes shall read,

Where Nature, far from vulgar eyes, “At midnight, by its lonely ray,

Through labyrinths of wonder flies. 1 It does not appear to have been very difficult to become as generally as he who anticipated Newton in devd a philosopher among the ancients. A moderate store of arrangement of the universe. learning, with a considerable portion of confidence, and just For this opinion of Xenophanes, see Plutarch. wit enough to produce an occasional apophthegm, seem to Philosoph., lib. ii. cap. 13. It is impossible to have been all the qualifications necessary for the purpose. treatise of Plutarch, without alternately admiring The principles of moral science were so very imperfectly and smiling at the absurdities of the philosophers understood, that the founder of a new sect, in forming his The ancients had their lucerne cubicular ethical code, might consult either fancy or temperament, and chamber lamps, which, as the emperor Galienus adapt it to his own passions and propensities; so that Ma cras meminere ;" and, with the same commenda homet, with a little more learning, might have flourished as crecy, Praxagora addresses her lamp in Ari a philosopher in those days, and would have required but the Exkins. We may judge how fanciful they were, polish of the schools to become the rival of Aristippus in and embellishment of their lamps, from the famou morality. In the science of nature, too, though some valua Lucerna which we find in the Romanum Mus ble truths were discovered by them, they seemed hardly to Ang. Causei, p. 127. know they were truths, or at least were as well satisfied : Hesiod, who tells us in melancholy terms of with errors; and Xenophanes, who asserted that the stars flight to the wretched village of Ascra, Epy. kai 'I were igneous clouds, lighted up every night and extinguished 4 Εννυχιαι στειχον, περικαλλεα οσσαν ιεισαι. Τ again in the morning, was thought and styled a philosopher, 5 Και μοι σκηπτρον εδον, δαφνης εριθηλεα οξoν.

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