'Tis thus my heart shall learn to know I'll tell thee, as I trim thy fire, Swift, swift the tide of being runs, Oh, then if earth's united power Why were the fleeting treasures given, Pleasure, thou only good on earth!? Then far be all the wisdom hence, That would our joys one hour delay! Love calls us to in youth's bright day, Ne'er wert thou form'd, my Lamp, to shed Of thoughtful lore and studies sage, 1 Puvrabla zorapov dikny, as expressed among the dogmas of Heraclitus the Ephesian, and with the same age by Beneca, in whom we find a beautiful diffusion of the thought. "Nemo est mane, qui fuit pridie. Corpora nostra rapiuntur fluminum more; quidquid vides currit cum tempore. Nihil ex his quæ vidémus manet. Ego ipse, dum loquor mutari ipsa, mutatus sum," &c. 2 Aristippus considered motion as the principle of happiness, in which idea he differed from the Epicureans, who looked to a state of repose as the only true voluptuousness, and avoided even the too lively agitations of pleasure, as a violent and ungraceful derangement of the senses. Maupertuis may be thought to have borrowed from the ancient Aristippus that indiscriminate theory of pleasures which he has set forth in his Essai de Philosophie Morale, and for which he was so very justly condemned. Aristippus, according to Laertius, held μη διαφέρειν τε ἡδονὴν Maupertuis has been still more explicit than this philoso-downs, which irrational sentiment has been adopted by pher, in ranking the pleasures of sense above the sublimest Maupertuis: "Tant qu'on ne considère que l'état présent, pursuits of wisdom. Speaking of the infant man in his pro- tous les plaisirs sont du même genre," &c. &c. And still "Good night," my Rosa, say— "Good night!" you'll murmur with a sigh, And tell me it is time to fly: And I will vow, will swear to go, While still that sweet voice murmurs "No!" SONG. WHY does azure deck the sky? "Tis to be like thine eyes of blue; Why is red the rose's dye? Because it is thy blushes' hue. All that's fair, by Love's decree, Has been made resembling thee! Why is falling snow so white, But to be like thy bosom fair? Why are solar beams so bright? That they may seem thy golden hair! All that's bright, by Love's decree, Has been made resembling thee! Why are nature's beauties felt? Oh! 'tis thine in her we see ! Why has music power to melt? Oh! because it speaks like thee All that's sweet, by Love's decree, Has been made resembling theo WRITTEN IN A COMMONPLACE CALLED "THE BOOK OF FOLLIES;" IN WHICH EVERY ONE THAT OPENED IT WAS TO CO 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 truthHave all been scribbled so uncouth That Prudence, with a with'ring 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 heav'n By which those hours of peace were giv 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 ev'ry page with care, Not ev❜n a folly brightens there. Will they yet brighten ?-never, never! Then shut the book, O God, forever! Thou say'st, that we were born to meet, When, o'er thy face some gleam of thought, The sympathy I then betray'd, Perhaps was but the child of art, The guile of one, who long hath play'd With all these wily nets of heart. O thine is not my earliest vow; No-other nymphs to joy and pain This wild and wandering heart hath moved; With some it sported, wild and vain, While some it dearly, truly loved. The cheek to thine I fondly lay, To theirs hath been as fondly laid; The words to thee I warmly say, To them have been as warmly said. Then, scorn at once a worthless heart, Worthless alike, or fix'd or free; Think of the pure, bright soul thou art, And-love not me, oh love not me. Enough-now, turn thine eyes again; ΤΟ THE INVISIBLE GIRL. THEY try to persuade me, my dear little sprite, eye As mortal as ever drew gods from the sky. But I will not believe them-no, Science, to you I have long bid a last and a careless adieu: Still flying from Nature to study her laws, Oh! who, that has e'er enjoy'd rapture complete, Than written, with Harvey, whole volumes upon it? As for you, my sweet-voiced and invisible love, You must surely be one of those spirits, that rove By the bank where, at twilight, the poet reclines, When the star of the west on his solitude shines, And the magical figures of fancy have hung Every breeze with a sigh, every leaf with a tongue. Oh! hint to him then, 'tis retirement alone Can hallow his harp or ennoble its tone; Like you, with a veil of seclusion between, His song to the world let him utter unseen, And like you, a legitimate child of the spheres, Escape from the eye to enrapture the ears. Sweet spirit of mystery! how I should love, Inhaling forever your song and your sigh! care, I might sometimes converse with my nymph of the air, And turn with distaste from the clamorous crew, To steal in the pauses one whisper from you. Then, come and be near me, forever be mine, And oft, at those lingering moments of night, When the heart's busy thoughts have put slumber to flight, You shall come to my pillow and tell me of love, tone Of that voice, to my ear like some fairy-song known, The voice of the one upon earth, who has twined |