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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 we roam,
Through summer's glow and winter's gale,
To bear the mystic chaplets home.1
"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, "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!"

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 tread.
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

Upon so pure, so blest a grave,
To memory so entirely dear!

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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:

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 that flush,

Like vernal roses in the sun, Have 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.

THE WONDER.

COME, tell me where the maid is found,
Whose heart can love without deceit,
And I will range the world around,
To sigh one moment at her feet.

Oh! tell me where's her sainted home,
What air receives her blessed sigh,

A pilgrimage of years I'll roam
To catch one sparkle of her eye!

LYING.

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?

Nay, look not thus, with brow reproving; 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 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.

ANACREONTIC.

FRIEND of my soul, this goblet sip, "Twill chase that pensive tear;

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"Then love the Lamp-'twill often lead

"Thy step through learning's sacred way; "And when those studious eyes shall read, "At midnight, by its lonely ray,

1 It does not appear to have been very difficult to become a philosopher among the ancients. A moderate store of learning, with a considerable portion of confidence, and just it enough to produce an occasional apophthegm, seem to have been all the qualifications necessary for the purpose. The principles of moral science were so very imperfectly understood, that the founder of a new sect, in forming his ethical code, might consult either fancy or temperament, and adapt it to his own passions and propensities; so that Mahomet, with a little more learning, might have flourished as a philosopher in those days, and would have required but the polish of the schools to become the rival of Aristippus in morality. In the science of nature, too, though some valuable truths were discovered by them, they seemed hardly to know they were truths, or at least were as well satisfied with errors; and Xenophanes, who asserted that the stars were igneous clouds, lighted up every night and extinguished again in the morning, was thought and styled a philosopher,

"Of things sublime, of nature's bir "Of all that's bright in heaven or "Oh, think that she, by whom 'twas give "Adores thee more than earth or heaven

Yes-dearest Lamp, by every charm

On which thy midnight beam has hu The head reclined, the graceful arm Across the brow of iv y flung;

The heaving bosom, partly hid,

The sever'd lip's unconscious sighs, The fringe that from the half-shut lid Adown the cheek of roses lies:

By these, by all that bloom untold,
And long as all shall charm my hear
I'll love my little Lamp of gold-
My Lamp and I shall never part.

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,

Where still we catch the Chian's bre Where still the bard, though cold in Has left his soul unquench'd behind. Or, o'er thy humbler legend shine,

Oh man of Ascra's dreary glades!3 To whom the nightly warbling Nine

A wand of inspiration gave,* Pluck'd from the greenest tree, that sha The crystal of Castalia's wave.

Then, turning to a purer lore,
We'll cull the sages' deep-hid store;
From Science steal her golden clew,
And every mystic path pursue,
Where Nature, far from vulgar eyes,
Through labyrinths of wonder flies.

as generally as he who anticipated Newton in de arrangement of the universe.

For this opinion of Xenophanes, see Plutarch Philosoph., lib. ii. cap. 13. It is impossible t treatise of Plutarch, without alternately admiring and smiling at the absurdities of the philosopher

2 The ancients had their lucernæ cubicular chamber lamps, which, as the emperor Galienu cras meminere ;" and, with the same commend crecy, Praxagora addresses her lamp in A EKKλns. We may judge how fanciful they were and embellishment of their lamps, from the famo Lucerna which we find in the Romanum Mus Ang. Causei, p. 127.

$ Hesiod, who tells us in melancholy terms of flight to the wretched village of Ascra. Еpy.kat 4 Εννυχίαι στείχον, περικαλλέα οσσαν ιείσαι. Τ 5 Και μοι σκήπτρον εδον, δαφνης εριθήλεα οξον.

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