But love's an essence of the soul, Which sinks hot with this chain of clay; Which throbs beyond the chill control Of withering pain or pale decay.

And surely, when the touch of Death Dissolves the spirit's earthly ties, Love still attends the immortal breath, And makes it purer for the skies!

Oh Rosa, when, to seek its sphere, My soul shall leave this orb of men, That love which formed its treasure here, Shall be its best of treasures then!

And as, in fabled dreams of old, Some air-born genius, child of time, Presided o'er each star that rolled, And tracked it through its path sublime;

So thou, fair planet, not unled, Shalt through thy mortal orbit stray; Thy lover's shade, to thee still wed, Shall linger round thy earthly way.

Let other spirits range the sky, And play around each starry gem; I'll bask beneath that lucid eye, Nor envy worlds of suns to them.

And when that heart shall cease to beat, And when that breath at length is free, Then, Rosa, soul to soul we'll meet, And mingle to eternity!



SONG.

The wreath you wove, the wreath you wove, Is fair—but oh, how fair, If Pity's hand had stolen from Love One leaf, to mingle there!

If every rose with gold were tied, Did gems for dewdrops fall, One faded leaf where Love had sighed Were sweetly worth them all.

The wreath you wove,—the wreath you wove Our emblem well may be; Its bloom is yours, but hopeless Love Must keep its tears for me.



THE SALE OF LOVES.

I dreamt that, in the Paphian groves, My nets by moonlight laying, I caught a flight of wanton Loves, Among the rose-beds playing. Some just had left their silvery shell, While some were full in feather; So pretty a lot of Loves to sell, Were never yet strung together. Come buy my Loves, Come buy my Loves, Ye dames and rose-lipped misses!— They're new and bright, The cost is light, For the coin of this isle is kisses.

First Cloris came, with looks sedate. The coin on her lips was ready; "I buy," quoth she, "my Love by weight, "Full grown, if you please, and steady." "Let mine be light," said Fanny, "pray— "Such lasting toys undo one; "A light little Love that will last to-day,— "To-morrow I'll sport a new one." Come buy my Loves, Come buy my Loves, Ye dames and rose-lipped misses!— There's some will keep, Some light and cheap At from ten to twenty kisses.

The learned Prue took a pert young thing, To divert her virgin Muse with, And pluck sometimes a quill from his wing. To indite her billet-doux with, Poor Cloe would give for a well-fledged pair Her only eye, if you'd ask it; And Tabitha begged, old toothless fair. For the youngest Love in the basket. Come buy my Loves, etc.

But one was left, when Susan came, One worth them all together; At sight of her dear looks of shame, He smiled and pruned his feather. She wished the boy—'twas more than whim— Her looks, her sighs betrayed it; But kisses were not enough for him, I asked a heart and she paid it! Good-by, my Loves, Good-by, my Loves, 'Twould make you smile to've seen us First, trade for this Sweet child of bliss, And then nurse the boy between us.



TO .... ....

The world has just begun to steal Each hope that led me lightly on; I felt not, as I used to feel, And life grew dark and love was gone.

No eye to mingle sorrow's tear, No lip to mingle pleasure's breath, No circling arms to draw me near— 'Twas gloomy, and I wished for death.

But when I saw that gentle eye, Oh! something seemed to tell me then, That I was yet too young to die, And hope and bliss might bloom again.

With every gentle smile that crost Your kindling cheek, you lighted home Some feeling which my heart had lost And peace which far had learned to roam.

'Twas then indeed so sweet to live, Hope looked so new and Love so kind. That, though I mourn, I yet forgive The ruin they have left behind.

I could have loved you—oh, so well!— The dream, that wishing boyhood knows, Is but a bright, beguiling spell, That only lives while passion glows.

But, when this early flush declines, When the heart's sunny morning fleets, You know not then how close it twines Round the first kindred soul it meets.

Yes, yes, I could have loved, as one Who, while his youth's enchantments fall, Finds something dear to rest upon, Which pays him for the loss of all.



TO .... ....

Never mind how the pedagogue proses, You want not antiquity's stamp; A lip, that such fragrance discloses, Oh! never should smell of the lamp.

Old Cloe, whose withering kiss Hath long set the Loves at defiance, Now, done with the science of bliss, May take to the blisses of science.

But for you to be buried in books— Ah, Fanny, they're pitiful sages, Who could not in one of your looks Read more than in millions of pages.

Astronomy finds in those eyes Better light than she studies above; And Music would borrow your sighs As the melody fittest for Love.

Your Arithmetic only can trip If to count your own charms you endeavor; And Eloquence glows on your lip When you swear that you'll love me for ever.

Thus you see, what a brilliant alliance Of arts is assembled in you;— A course of more exquisite science Man never need wish to pursue.

And, oh!—if a Fellow like me May confer a diploma of hearts, With my lip thus I seal your degree, My divine little Mistress of Arts!



ON THE DEATH OF A LADY,

Sweet spirit! if thy airy sleep Nor sees my tears not hears my sighs, Then will I weep, in anguish weep, Till the last heart's drop fills mine eyes.

But if thy sainted soul can feel, And mingles in our misery; Then, then my breaking heart I'll seal— Thou shalt not hear one sigh from me.

The beam of morn was on the stream, But sullen clouds the day deform; Like thee was that young, orient beam, Like death, alas, that sullen storm!

Thou wert not formed for living here, So linked thy soul was with the sky; Yet, ah, we held thee all so dear, We thought thou wert not formed to die.



INCONSTANCY.

And do I then wonder that Julia deceives me, When surely there's nothing in nature more common? She vows to be true, and while vowing she leaves me— And could I expect any more from a woman?

Oh, woman! your heart is a pitiful treasure; And Mahomet's doctrine was not too severe, When he held that you were but materials of pleasure, And reason and thinking were out of your sphere.

By your heart, when the fond sighing lover can win it, He thinks that an age of anxiety's paid; But, oh, while he's blest, let him die at the minute— If he live but a day, he'll be surely betrayed.



THE NATAL GENIUS.

A DREAM

TO .... ....

THE MORNING OF HER BIRTHDAY.

In witching slumbers of the night, I dreamt I was the airy sprite That on thy natal moment smiled; And thought I wafted on my wing Those flowers which in Elysium spring, To crown my lovely mortal child.

With olive-branch I bound thy head, Heart's ease along thy path I shed, Which was to bloom through all thy years; Nor yet did I forget to bind Love's roses, with his myrtle twined, And dewed by sympathetic tears.

Such was the wild but precious boon Which Fancy, at her magic noon, Bade me to Nona's image pay; And were it thus my fate to be Thy little guardian deity, How blest around thy steps I'd play!

Thy life should glide in peace along, Calm as some lonely shepherd's song That's heard at distance in the grove; No cloud should ever dim thy sky, No thorns along thy pathway lie, But all be beauty, peace and love.

Indulgent Time should never bring To thee one blight upon his wing, So gently o'er thy brow he'd fly; And death itself should but be felt Like that of daybeams, when they melt, Bright to the last, in evening's sky!



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 Hath brought a new and, quickening smart To wounds that rankled fresh before;

Though in my earliest life bereft Of tender links by nature tied; Though hope deceived, and pleasure left; Though friends betrayed 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, feinting from the waves of life, Find harbor in a brother's breast.

That brother's breast was warm with truth, Was bright with honor's purest ray; He was the dearest, gentlest youth— Ah, why then was he torn away?

He should have stayed, have lingered here To soothe his Julia's every woe; He should have chased each bitter tear, And not have caused those tears to flow.

We saw within his soul expand The fruits of genius, nurst by taste; While Science, with a fostering hand, Upon his brow her chaplet placed.

We saw, by bright degrees, his mind Grow rich in all that makes men dear; Enlightened, social, and refined, In friendship firm, in love sincere.

Such was the youth we loved so well, And such the hopes that fate denied;— We loved, but ah! could scarcely 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.



TO THE LARGE AND BEAUTIFUL MISS......,

IN ALLUSION TO SOME PARTNERSHIP IN A LOTTERY SHARE

IMPROMPTU.

—Ego Pars—VIRG.

In wedlock a species of lottery lies, Where in blanks and in prizes we deal; But how comes it that you, such a capital prize, Should so long have remained in the wheel?

If ever, by Fortune's indulgent decree, To me such a ticket should roll, A sixteenth, Heaven knows! were sufficient for me; For what could I do with the whole?



A DREAM.

I thought this heart enkindled 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!



TO .......

With all my soul, then, let us part, Since both are anxious to be free; And I will sand you home your heart, If you will send mine back to me.

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.

'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.

Thus let us leave the bower of love, Where we have loitered long in bliss; And you may down that pathway rove, While I shall take my way through this.



ANACREONTIC.

"She never looked so kind before— "Yet why the wanton's smile recall? "I've seen this witchery o'er and o'er, "'Tis hollow, vain, and heartless all!"

Thus I said and, sighing drained The cup which she so late had tasted; Upon whose rim still fresh remained The breath, so oft in falsehood wasted.

I took the harp and would have sung As if 'twere not of her I sang; But still the notes on Lamia hung— On whom but Lamia could they hang?

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.

That frame so delicate, yet warmed With flushes of love's genial hue; A mould transparent, as if formed To let the spirit's light shine through.

Of these I sung, and notes and words Were sweet, as if the very air From Lamia's lip hung o'er the chords, And Lamia's voice still warbled there!

But when, alas, I turned the theme, And when of vows and oaths I spoke, Of truth and hope's seducing dream— The chord beneath my finger broke.

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.

And when that thrill is most awake, And when you think Heaven's joys await you, The nymph will change, the chord will break— Oh Love, oh Music, how I hate you!



TO JULIA.

I saw the peasant's hand unkind From yonder oak the ivy sever; They seemed in very being twined; Yet now the oak is fresh as ever!

Not so the widowed ivy shines: Torn from its dear and only stay, In drooping widowhood it pines, And scatters all its bloom away.

Thus, Julia, did our hearts entwine, Till Fate disturbed their tender ties: Thus gay indifference blooms in thine, While mine, deserted, droops and dies!



HYMN OF A VIRGIN OF DELPHI,

AT THE TOMB OF HER MOTHER.

Oh, lost, forever lost—no more Shall Vesper light our dewy way Along the rocks of Crissa's shore, To hymn the fading fires of day; No more to Tempe'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 warmed 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'er thrown. 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 lingering 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 silvery tear Upon so pure, so blest a grave, To memory so entirely dear!

[1] The laurel, for the common uses of the temple, for adorning the altars and sweeping the pavement, was supplied by a tree near the fountain of Castalia; but upon all important occasions, they sent to Tempe for their laurel. We find, in Pausanias; that this valley supplied the branches, of which the temple was originally constructed; and Plutarch says, in his Dialogue on Music, "The youth who brings the Tempic laurel to Delphi is always attended by a player on the flute."



SYMPATHY.

TO JULIA.

—sine me sit nulla Venus. SULPICIA.

Our hearts, my love, were formed to be The genuine twins of Sympathy, They live with one sensation; In joy or grief, but most in love, Like chords in unison they move, And thrill with like vibration.

How oft I've beard 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, So twined are we in loving!



THE TEAR.

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 gushed, the wintry air, Congealed it as it flowed away: All night it lay an ice-drop there, At morn it glittered 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!



THE SNAKE.

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.

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

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

I rose to kill the snake, but she, Half-smiling, prayed 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?"



TO ROSA.

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

Is my Rosa's lute unstrung? Once a tale of peace it sung To her lover's throbbing breast— Then 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 lover— Rosa's love and song are over!



ELEGIAC STANZAS.

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!

Saw you the soft and grassy bed, Where flowrets deck the green earth's breast? 'Tis there I wish to lay my head, 'Tis there I wish to sleep at rest.

Oh, let not tears embalm my tomb,— None but the dews at twilight given! Oh, let not sighs disturb the gloom,— None but the whispering winds of heaven!



LOVE AND MARRIAGE.

Eque brevi verbo ferre perenne malum. SECUNDUS, eleg. vii.

Still the question I must parry, Still a wayward truant prove: Where I love, I must not marry; Where I marry, can not love.

Were she fairest of creation, With the least presuming mind; Learned without affectation; Not deceitful, yet refined;

Wise enough, but never rigid; Gay, but not too lightly free; Chaste as snow, and yet not frigid: Fond, yet satisfied with me:

Were she all this ten times over, All that heaven 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.



ANACREONTIC.

I filled 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 bade an artist paint Thy image in this ample cup, That I might see the dimpled saint, To whom I quaffed my nectar up.

Behold, how bright that purple lip Now blushes through the wave at me; Every roseate drop I sip Is just like kissing wine from thee.

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.

So, here's to thee, my gentle dear, And may that eyelid never shine Beneath a darker, bitterer tear Than bathes it in this bowl of mine!



THE SURPRISE.

Chloris, I swear, by all I ever swore, That from this hour I shall not love thee more.— "What! love no more? Oh! why this altered vow?" Because I can not love thee more —than now!



TO MISS .......

ON HER ASKING THE AUTHOR WHY SHE HAD SLEEPLESS NIGHTS.

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 throbbed 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 impassioned 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!

And if her cheek be smooth and bright, While truth within her bosom lies, I'll gaze upon her morn and night, Till my heart leave me through my eyes.

Show me on earth a thing so rare, I'll own all miracles are true; To make one maid sincere and fair, Oh, 'tis the utmost Heaven can do!



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 kist, 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; 'Tis not so sweet as woman's lip, But, oh! 'tis more sincere.

Like her delusive beam, 'Twill steal away thy mind: But, truer than love's dream, It leaves no sting behind.

Come, twine the wreath, thy brows to shade; These flowers were culled at noon;— Like woman's love the rose will fade, But, ah! not half so soon. For though the flower's decayed, Its fragrance is not o'er; But once when love's betrayed, Its sweet life blooms no more.



THE PHILOSOPHER ARISTIPPUS[1]

TO A LAMP WHICH HAD BEEN GIVEN HIM BY LAIS.

Dulcis conscia lectuli lucerna. MARTIAL, lib. xiv. epig. 89.

"Oh! love the Lamp" (my Mistress said), "The faithful Lamp that, many a night, "Beside thy Lais' lonely bed? "Has kept its little watch of light.

"Full often has it seen her weep, "And fix her eye upon its flame. "Till, weary, she has sunk to sleep, "Repeating her beloved's name.

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

Yes—dearest Lamp, by every charm On which thy midnight beam has hung; The head reclined, the graceful arm Across the brow of ivory flung;

The heaving bosom, partly hid, The severed lips 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 heart, 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 breath, Where still the bard though cold in death, Has left his soul unquenched behind. Or, o'er thy humbler legend shine, Oh man of Ascra's dreary glades, To whom the nightly warbling Nine A wand of inspiration gave, Plucked from the greenest tree, that shades The crystal of Castalia's wave.

Then, turning to a purer lore, We'll cull the sage's deep-hid store, From Science steal her golden clue, And every mystic path pursue, Where Nature, far from vulgar eyes, Through labyrinths of wonder flies. 'Tis thus my heart shall learn to know How fleeting is this world below, Where all that meets the morning light, Is changed before the fall of night!

I'll tell thee, as I trim thy fire, "Swift, swift the tide of being runs, "And Time, who bids thy flame expire, "Will also quench yon heaven of suns."

Oh, then if earth's united power Can never chain one feathery hour; If every print we leave to-day To-morrow's wave will sweep away; Who pauses to inquire of heaven Why were the fleeting treasures given, The sunny days, the shady nights, And all their brief but dear delights, Which heaven has made for man to use, And man should think it crime to lose? Who that has culled a fresh-blown rose Will ask it why it breathes and glows, Unmindful of the blushing ray, In which it shines its soul away; Unmindful of the scented sigh, With which it dies and loves to die.

Pleasure, thou only good on earth[2] One precious moment given to thee— Oh! by my Lais' lip, 'tis worth The sage's immortality.

Then far be all the wisdom hence, That would our joys one hour delay! Alas, the feast of soul and sense Love calls us to in youth's bright day, If not soon tasted, fleets away. Ne'er wert thou formed, my Lamp, to shed Thy splendor on a lifeless page;— Whate'er my blushing Lais said Of thoughtful lore and studies sage, 'Twas mockery all—her glance of joy Told me thy dearest, best employ. And, soon, as night shall close the eye Of heaven's young wanderer in the west; When seers are gazing on the sky, To find their future orbs of rest; Then shall I take my trembling way, Unseen but to those worlds above, And, led by thy mysterious ray, Steal to the night-bower of my love.

[1] It does not appear to have been very difficult to become a philosopher amongst the ancients. A moderate store of learning, with a considerable portion of confidence, and just wit enough to produce an occasional apophthegm, seem to have been all the qualifications necessary for the purpose.

[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.



TO MRS,—-.

ON HER BEAUTIFUL TRANSLATION OF VOITURE'S KISS.

Mon ame sur mon levre etoit lors toute entiere. Pour savourer le miel qui sur la votre etoit; Mais en me retirant, elle resta derriere, Tant de ce doux plaisir l'amorce l'a restoit. VOITURE.

How heavenly was the poet's doom, To breathe his spirit through a kiss: And lose within so sweet a tomb The trembling messenger of bliss!

And, sure his soul returned to feel That it again could ravished be; For in the kiss that thou didst steal, His life and soul have fled to thee.



RONDEAU.

"Good night! good night!"—And is it so? And must I from my Rosa go? Oh Rosa, say "Good night!" once more, And I'll repeat it o'er and o'er, Till the first glance of dawning light Shall find us saying, still, "Good night."

And still "Good night," my Rosa, say— But whisper still, "A minute stay;" And I will stay, and every minute Shall have an age of transport in it; Till Time himself shall stay his flight, To listen to our sweet "Good night."

"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!" Till slumber seal our weary sight— And then, my love, my soul, "Good night!"



SONG.

Why does azure deck the sky? 'Tis to be like thy looks 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 thee!



TO ROSA.

Like one who trusts to summer skies, And puts his little bark to sea, Is he who, lured by smiling eyes, Consigns his simple heart to thee.

For fickle is the summer wind, And sadly may the bark be tost; For thou art sure to change thy mind, And then the wretched heart is lost!



WRITTEN IN A COMMONPLACE BOOK, CALLED "THE BOOK OF FOLLIES;" IN WHICH EVERY ONE THAT OPENED IT WAS TO 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 penned 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 stained 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 even a folly brightens there. Will they yet brighten?—never, never! Then shut the book, O God, for ever!



TO ROSA.

Say, why should the girl of my soul be in tears At a meeting of rapture like this, When the glooms of the past and the sorrow of years Have been paid by one moment of bliss?

Are they shed for that moment of blissful delight, Which dwells on her memory yet? Do they flow, like the dews of the love-breathing night, From the warmth of the sun that has set?

Oh! sweet is the tear on that languishing smile, That smile, which is loveliest then; And if such are the drops that delight can beguile, Thou shalt weep them again and again.



LIGHT SOUNDS THE HARP.

Light sounds the harp when the combat is over, When heroes are resting, and joy is in bloom; When laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover, And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume. But, when the foe returns, Again the hero burns; High flames the sword in his hand once more: The clang of mingling arms Is then the sound that charms, And brazen notes of war, that stirring trumpets pour;— Then, again comes the Harp, when the combat is over— When heroes are resting, and Joy is in bloom— When laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover, And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume. Light went the harp when the War-God, reclining, Lay lulled on the white arm of Beauty to rest, When round his rich armor the myrtle hung twining, And flights of young doves made his helmet their nest. But, when the battle came, The hero's eye breathed flame: Soon from his neck the white arm was flung; While, to his waking ear, No other sounds were dear But brazen notes of war, by thousand trumpets sung. But then came the light harp, when danger was ended, And Beauty once more lulled the War-God to rest; When tresses of gold with his laurels lay blended, And flights of young doves made his helmet their nest.



FROM THE GREEK OF MELEAGER.

Fill high the cup with liquid flame, And speak my Heliodora's name. Repeat its magic o'er and o'er, And let the sound my lips adore, Live in the breeze, till every tone, And word, and breath, speaks her alone.

Give me the wreath that withers there, It was but last delicious night, It circled her luxuriant hair, And caught her eyes' reflected light. Oh! haste, and twine it round my brow, 'Tis all of her that's left me now. And see—each rosebud drops a tear, To find the nymph no longer here— No longer, where such heavenly charms As hers should be—within these arms.



SONG.

Fly from the world, O Bessy! to me, Thou wilt never find any sincerer; I'll give up the world, O Bessy! for thee, I can never meet any that's dearer. Then tell me no more, with a tear and a sigh, That our loves will be censured by many; All, all have their follies, and who will deny That ours is the sweetest of any?

When your lip has met mine, in communion so sweet, Have we felt as if virtue forbid it?— Have we felt as if heaven denied them to meet?— No, rather 'twas heaven that did it. So innocent, love, is the joy we then sip, So little of wrong is there in it, That I wish all my errors were lodged on your lip, And I'd kiss them away in a minute.

Then come to your lover, oh! fly to his shed, From a world which I know thou despisest; And slumber will hover as light o'er our bed! As e'er on the couch of the wisest. And when o'er our pillow the tempest is driven, And thou, pretty innocent, fearest, I'll tell thee, it is not the chiding of heaven, 'Tis only our lullaby, dearest.

And, oh! while, we lie on our deathbed, my love, Looking back on the scene of our errors, A sigh from my Bessy shall plead then above, And Death be disarmed of his terrors, And each to the other embracing will say, "Farewell! let us hope we're forgiven." Thy last fading glance will illumine the way, And a kiss be our passport to heaven!



THE RESEMBLANCE.

—— vo cercand' io, Donna quant' e possibile in altrui La desiata vostra forma vera. PETRARC, Sonett. 14.

Yes, if 'twere any common love, That led my pliant heart astray, I grant, there's not a power above Could wipe the faithless crime away.

But 'twas my doom to err with one In every look so like to thee That, underneath yon blessed sun So fair there are but thou and she

Both born of beauty, at a birth, She held with thine a kindred sway, And wore the only shape on earth That could have lured my soul to stray.

Then blame me not, if false I be, 'Twas love that waked the fond excess; My heart had been more true to thee, Had mine eye prized thy beauty less.



FANNY, DEAREST.

Yes! had I leisure to sigh and mourn, Fanny, dearest, for thee I'd sigh; And every smile on my cheek should turn To tears when thou art nigh. But, between love, and wine, and sleep, So busy a life I live, That even the time it would take to weep Is more than my heart can give. Then bid me not to despair and pine, Fanny, dearest of all the dears! The Love that's ordered to bathe in wine, Would be sure to take cold in tears.

Reflected bright in this heart of mine, Fanny, dearest, thy image lies; But, ah, the mirror would cease to shine, If dimmed too often with sighs. They lose the half of beauty's light, Who view it through sorrow's tear; And 'tis but to see thee truly bright That I keep my eye-beam clear. Then wait no longer till tears shall flow, Fanny, dearest—the hope is vain; If sunshine cannot dissolve thy snow, I shall never attempt it with rain.



THE RING.

TO .... ....

No—Lady! Lady! keep the ring: Oh! think, how many a future year, Of placid smile and downy wing, May sleep within its holy sphere.

Do not disturb their tranquil dream, Though love hath ne'er the mystery warmed; Yet heaven will shed a soothing beam, To bless the bond itself hath formed.

But then, that eye, that burning eye,— Oh! it doth ask, with witching power, If heaven can ever bless the tie Where love inwreaths no genial flower?

Away, away, bewildering look, Or all the boast of virtue's o'er; Go—hie thee to the sage's book, And learn from him to feel no more.

I cannot warn thee: every touch, That brings my pulses close to thine, Tells me I want thy aid as much— Even more, alas, than thou dost mine.

Yet, stay,—one hope, one effort yet— A moment turn those eyes a way, And let me, if I can, forget The light that leads my soul astray.

Thou sayest, that we were born to meet, That our hearts bear one common seal;— Think, Lady, think, how man's deceit Can seem to sigh and feign to feel.

When, o'er thy face some gleam of thought, Like daybeams through the morning air, Hath gradual stole, and I have caught The feeling ere it kindled there;

The sympathy I then betrayed, Perhaps was but the child of art, The guile of one, who long hath played With all these wily nets of heart.

Oh! thine is not my earliest vow; Though few the years I yet have told, Canst thou believe I've lived till now, With loveless heart or senses cold?

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 fixt or free; Think of the pure, bright soul thou art, And—love not me, oh love not me.

Enough—now, turn thine eyes again; What, still that look and still that sigh! Dost thou not feel my counsel then? Oh! no, beloved,—nor do I.



TO THE INVISIBLE GIRL.

They try to persuade me, my dear little sprite, That you're not a true daughter of ether and light, Nor have any concern with those fanciful forms That dance upon rainbows and ride upon storms; That, in short, you're a woman; your lip and your 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, And dulling delight by exploring its cause, You forget how superior, for mortals below, Is the fiction they dream to the truth that they know. Oh! who, that has e'er enjoyed rapture complete, Would ask how we feel it, or why it is sweet; How rays are confused, or how particles fly Through the medium refined of a glance or a sigh; Is there one, who but once would not rather have known it, 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 fingers 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, In the wearisome ways I am fated to rove, To have you thus ever invisibly nigh, Inhaling for ever your song and your sigh! Mid the crowds of the world and the murmurs of 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, for ever be mine, We shall hold in the air a communion divine, As sweet as, of old, was imagined to dwell In the grotto of Numa, or Socrates' cell. 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, Such as angel to angel might whisper above. Sweet spirit!—and then, could you borrow the tone Of that voice, to my ear like some fairy-song known, The voice of the one upon earth, who has twined With her being for ever my heart and my mind, Though lonely and far from the light of her smile, An exile, and weary and hopeless the while, Could you shed for a moment her voice on my ear. I will think, for that moment, that Cara is near; That she comes with consoling enchantment to speak, And kisses my eyelid and breathes on my cheek, And tells me the night shall go rapidly by, For the dawn of our hope, of our heaven is nigh.

Fair spirit! if such be your magical power, It will lighten the lapse of full many an hour; And, let fortune's realities frown as they will, Hope, fancy, and Cara may smile for me still.



THE RING[1]

A TALE

Annulus ille viri. OVID. "Amor." lib. ii. eleg. 15.

The happy day at length arrived When Rupert was to wed The fairest maid in Saxony, And take her to his bed.

As soon as morn was in the sky, The feast and sports began; The men admired the happy maid, The maids the happy man.

In many a sweet device of mirth The day was past along; And some the featly dance amused, And some the dulcet song.

The younger maids with Isabel Disported through the bowers, And decked her robe, and crowned her head With motley bridal flowers.

The matrons all in rich attire, Within the castle walls, Sat listening to the choral strains That echoed, through the halls.

Young Rupert and his friends repaired Unto a spacious court, To strike the bounding tennis-ball In feat and manly sport.

The bridegroom on his finger wore The wedding-ring so bright, Which was to grace the lily hand Of Isabel that night.

And fearing he might break the gem, Or lose it in the play, Hie looked around the court, to see Where he the ring might lay.

Now, in the court a statue stood, Which there full long had been; It might a Heathen goddess be, Or else, a Heathen queen.

Upon its marble finger then He tried the ring to fit; And, thinking it was safest there, Thereon he fastened it.

And now the tennis sports went on, Till they were wearied all, And messengers announced to them Their dinner in the hall,

Young Rupert for his wedding-ring Unto the statue went; But, oh, how shocked was he to find The marble finger bent!

The hand was closed upon the ring With firm and mighty clasp; In vain he tried and tried and tried, He could not loose the grasp!

Then sore surprised was Rupert's mind— As well his mind might be; "I'll come," quoth he, "at night again, "When none are here to see."

He went unto the feast, and much He thought upon his ring; And marvelled sorely what could mean So very strange a thing!

The feast was o'er, and to the court He hied without delay, Resolved to break the marble hand And force the ring away.

But, mark a stranger wonder still— The ring was there no more And yet the marble hand ungrasped, And open as before!

He searched the base, and all the court, But nothing could he find; Then to the castle hied he back With sore bewildered mind.

Within he found them all in mirth, The night in dancing flew: The youth another ring procured, And none the adventure knew.

And now the priest has joined their hands, The hours of love advance: Rupert almost forgets to think Upon the morn's mischance.

Within the bed fair Isabel In blushing sweetness lay, Like flowers, half-opened by the dawn, And waiting for the day.

And Rupert, by her lovely side, In youthful beauty glows, Like Phoebus, when he bends to cast His beams upon a rose.

And here my song would leave them both, Nor let the rest be told, If 'twere not for the horrid tale It yet has to unfold.

Soon Rupert, 'twixt his bride and him A death cold carcass found; He saw it not, but thought he felt Its arms embrace him round.

He started up, and then returned, But found the phantom still; In vain he shrunk, it clipt him round, With damp and deadly chill!

And when he bent, the earthy lips A kiss of horror gave; 'Twas like the smell from charnel vaults, Or from the mouldering grave!

Ill-fated Rupert!—wild and loud Then cried he to his wife, "Oh! save me from this horrid fiend, "My Isabel! my life!"

But Isabel had nothing seen, She looked around in vain; And much she mourned the mad conceit That racked her Rupert's brain.

At length from this invisible These words to Rupert came: (Oh God! while he did hear the words What terrors shook his frame!)

"Husband, husband, I've the ring "Thou gavest to-day to me; "And thou'rt to me for ever wed, "As I am wed to thee!"

And all the night the demon lay Cold-chilling by his side, And strained him with such deadly grasp, He thought he should have died.

But when the dawn of day was near, The horrid phantom fled, And left the affrighted youth to weep By Isabel in bed.

And all that day a gloomy cloud Was seen on Rupert's brows; Fair Isabel was likewise sad, But strove to cheer her spouse.

And, as the day advanced, he thought Of coming night with fear: Alas, that he should dread to view The bed that should be dear!

At length the second night arrived, Again their couch they prest; Poor Rupert hoped that all was o'er, And looked for love and rest.

But oh! when midnight came, again The fiend was at his side, And, as it strained him in its grasp, With howl exulting cried:—

"Husband, husband, I've the ring, "The ring thou gavest to me; "And thou'rt to me for ever wed, "As I am wed to thee!",

In agony of wild despair, He started from the bed; And thus to his bewildered wife The trembling Rupert said;

"Oh Isabel! dost thou not see "A shape of horrors here, "That strains me to its deadly kiss, "And keeps me from my dear?"

"No, no, my love! my Rupert, I "No shape of horrors see; "And much I mourn the fantasy "That keeps my dear from me."

This night, just like the night before, In terrors past away. Nor did the demon vanish thence Before the dawn of day.

Said Rupert then, "My Isabel, "Dear partner of my woe. "To Father Austin's holy cave "This instant will I go."

Now Austin was a reverend man, Who acted wonders maint— Whom all the country round believed A devil or a saint!

To Father Austin's holy cave Then Rupert straightway went; And told him all, and asked him how These horrors to prevent.

The father heard the youth, and then Retired awhile to pray: And, having prayed for half an hour Thus to the youth did say:

"There is a place where four roads meet, "Which I will tell to thee; "Be there this eve, at fall of night, "And list what thou shalt see.

"Thou'lt see a group of figures pass "In strange disordered crowd, "Travelling by torchlight through the roads, "With noises strange and loud.

"And one that's high above the rest, "Terrific towering o'er, "Will make thee know him at a glance, "So I need say no more.

"To him from me these tablets give, "They'll quick be understood; "Thou need'st not fear, but give them straight, "I've scrawled them with my blood!"

The night-fall came, and Rupert all In pale amazement went To where the cross-roads met, as he Was by the Father sent.

And lo! a group of figures came In strange disordered crowd. Travelling by torchlight through the roads, With noises strange and loud.

And, as the gloomy train advanced, Rupert beheld from far A female form of wanton mien High seated on a car.

And Rupert, as he gazed upon The loosely-vested dame, Thought of the marble statue's look, For hers was just the same.

Behind her walked a hideous form, With eyeballs flashing death; Whene'er he breathed, a sulphured smoke Came burning in his breath.

He seemed the first of all the crowd, Terrific towering o'er; "Yes, yes," said Rupert, "this is he, "And I need ask no more."

Then slow he went, and to this fiend The tablets trembling gave, Who looked and read them with a yell That would disturb the grave.

And when he saw the blood-scrawled name, His eyes with fury shine; "I thought," cries he, "his time was out, "But he must soon be mine!"

Then darting at the youth a look Which rent his soul with fear, He went unto the female fiend, And whispered in her ear.

The female fiend no sooner heard Than, with reluctant look, The very ring that Rupert lost, She from her finger took.

And, giving it unto the youth, With eyes that breathed of hell, She said, in that tremendous voice, Which he remembered well:

"In Austin's name take back the ring, "The ring thou gavest to me; "And thou'rt to me no longer wed, "Nor longer I to thee."

He took the ring, the rabble past. He home returned again; His wife was then the happiest fair, The happiest he of men.

[1] I should be sorry to think that my friend had any serious intentions of frightening the nursery by this story; I rather hope—though the manner of it leads me to doubt—that his design was to ridicule that distempered taste which prefers those monsters of the fancy to the "speciosa miracula" of true poetic imagination.



TO .... ....

ON SEEING HER WITH A WHITE VEIL AND A RICH GIRDLE.

Put off the vestal Veil, nor, oh! Let weeping angels View it; Your cheeks belie its virgin snow. And blush repenting through it.

Put off the fatal zone you wear; The shining pearls around it Are tears, that fell from Virtue there, The hour when Love unbound it.



WRITTEN IN THE BLANK LEAF OF A LADY'S COMMONPLACE BOOK.

Here is one leaf reserved for me, From all thy sweet memorials free; And here my simple song might tell The feelings thou must guess so well. But could I thus, within thy mind, One little vacant corner find, Where no impression yet is seen, Where no memorial yet hath been, Oh! it should be my sweetest care To write my name for ever there!



TO MRS. BL——.

WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM.

They say that Love had once a book (The urchin likes to copy you), Where, all who came, the pencil took, And wrote, like us, a line or two.

'Twas Innocence, the maid divine, Who kept this volume bright and fair. And saw that no unhallowed line Or thought profane should enter there;

And daily did the pages fill With fond device and loving lore, And every leaf she turned was still More bright than that she turned before.

Beneath the touch of Hope, how soft, How light the magic pencil ran! Till Fear would come, alas, as oft, And trembling close what Hope began.

A tear or two had dropt from Grief, And Jealousy would, now and then, Ruffle in haste some snow-white leaf, Which Love had still to smooth again.

But, ah! there came a blooming boy, Who often turned the pages o'er, And wrote therein such words of joy, That all who read them sighed for more.

And Pleasure was this spirit's name, And though so soft his voice and look, Yet Innocence, whene'er he came, Would tremble for her spotless book.

For, oft a Bacchant cup he bore, With earth's sweet nectar sparkling bright; And much she feared lest, mantling o'er, Some drops should on the pages light.

And so it chanced, one luckless night, The urchin let that goblet fall O'er the fair book, so pure, so white, And sullied lines and marge and all!

In vain now, touched with shame, he tried To wash those fatal stains away; Deep, deep had sunk the sullying tide, The leaves grew darker everyday.

And Fancy's sketches lost their hue, And Hope's sweet lines were all effaced, And Love himself now scarcely knew What Love himself so lately traced.

At length the urchin Pleasure fled, (For how, alas! could Pleasure stay?) And Love, while many a tear he shed, Reluctant flung the book away.

The index now alone remains. Of all the pages spoiled by Pleasure, And though it bears some earthly stains, Yet Memory counts the leaf a treasure.

And oft, they say, she scans it o'er, And oft, by this memorial aided, Brings back the pages now no more, And thinks of lines that long have faded.

I know not if this tale be true, But thus the simple facts are stated; And I refer their truth to you, Since Love and you are near related.



TO CARA,

AFTER AN INTERVAL OF ABSENCE.

Concealed within the shady wood A mother left her sleeping child, And flew, to cull her rustic food, The fruitage of the forest wild.

But storms upon her pathway rise, The mother roams, astray and weeping; Far from the weak appealing cries Of him she left so sweetly sleeping.

She hopes, she fears; a light is seen, And gentler blows the night wind's breath; Yet no—'tis gone—the storms are keen, The infant may be chilled to death!

Perhaps, even now, in darkness shrouded, His little eyes lie cold and still;— And yet, perhaps, they are not clouded, Life and love may light them still.

Thus, Cara, at our last farewell, When, fearful even thy hand to touch, I mutely asked those eyes to tell If parting pained thee half so much:

I thought,—and, oh! forgive the thought, For none was e'er by love inspired Whom fancy had not also taught To hope the bliss his soul desired.

Yes, I did think, in Cara's mind, Though yet to that sweet mind unknown, I left one infant wish behind, One feeling, which I called my own.

Oh blest! though but in fancy blest, How did I ask of Pity's care, To shield and strengthen, in thy breast, The nursling I had cradled there.

And, many an hour, beguiled by pleasure, And many an hour of sorrow numbering, I ne'er forgot the new-born treasure, I left within thy bosom slumbering.

Perhaps, indifference has not chilled it, Haply, it yet a throb may give— Yet, no—perhaps, a doubt has killed it; Say, dearest—does the feeling live?



TO CARA,

ON THE DAWNING OF A NEW YEAR'S DAY.

When midnight came to close the year, We sighed to think it thus should take The hours it gave us—hours as dear As sympathy and love could make Their blessed moments,—every sun Saw us, my love, more closely one.

But, Cara, when the dawn was nigh Which came a new year's light to shed, That smile we caught from eye to eye Told us, those moments were not fled: Oh, no,—we felt, some future sun Should see us still more closely one.

Thus may we ever, side by side, From happy years to happier glide; And still thus may the passing sigh We give to hours, that vanish o'er us, Be followed by the smiling eye, That Hope shall shed on scenes before us!



TO ......., 1801.

To be the theme of every hour The heart devotes to Fancy's power, When her prompt magic fills the mind With friends and joys we've left behind, And joys return and friends are near, And all are welcomed with a tear:— In the mind's purest seat to dwell, To be remembered oft and well By one whose heart, though vain and wild, By passion led, by youth beguiled, Can proudly still aspire to be All that may yet win smiles from thee:— If thus to live in every part Of a lone, weary wanderer's heart; If thus to be its sole employ Can give thee one faint gleam of joy, Believe it. Mary,—oh! believe A tongue that never can deceive, Though, erring, it too oft betray Even more than Love should dare to say,— In Pleasure's dream or Sorrow's hour, In crowded hall or lonely bower, The business of my life shall be, For ever to remember thee. And though that heart be dead to mine, Since Love is life and wakes not thine, I'll take thy image, as the form Of one whom Love had failed to warm, Which, though it yield no answering thrill, Is not less dear, is worshipt still— I'll take it, wheresoe'er I stray, The bright, cold burden of my way. To keep this semblance fresh in bloom, My heart shall be its lasting tomb, And Memory, with embalming care, Shall keep it fresh and fadeless there.



THE GENIUS OF HARMONY.

AN IRREGULAR ODE.

Ad harmoniam canere mundum. CICERO "de Nat. Deor." lib. iii.

There lies a shell beneath the waves, In many a hollow winding wreathed, Such as of old Echoed the breath that warbling sea-maids breathed; This magic shell, From the white bosom of a syren fell, As once she wandered by the tide that laves Sicilia's sands of gold. It bears Upon its shining side the mystic notes Of those entrancing airs,[1] The genii of the deep were wont to swell, When heaven's eternal orbs their midnight music rolled! Oh! seek it, wheresoe'er it floats; And, if the power Of thrilling numbers to thy soul be dear,

Go, bring the bright shell to my bower, And I will fold thee in such downy dreams As lap the Spirit of the Seventh Sphere, When Luna's distant tone falls faintly on his ear![2] And thou shalt own, That, through the circle of creation's zone, Where matter slumbers or where spirit beams; From the pellucid tides,[3] that whirl The planets through their maze of song, To the small rill, that weeps along Murmuring o'er beds of pearl; From the rich sigh Of the sun's arrow through an evening sky,[4] To the faint breath the tuneful osier yields On Afric's burning fields;[5] Thou'lt wondering own this universe divine Is mine! That I respire in all and all in me, One mighty mingled soul of boundless harmony.

Welcome, welcome, mystic shell! Many a star has ceased to burn,[6] Many a tear has Saturn's urn O'er the cold bosom of the ocean wept, Since thy aerial spell Hath in the waters slept. Now blest I'll fly With the bright treasure to my choral sky, Where she, who waked its early swell, The Syren of the heavenly choir. Walks o'er the great string of my Orphic Lyre; Or guides around the burning pole The winged chariot of some blissful soul: While thou— Oh son of earth, what dreams shall rise for thee! Beneath Hispania's sun, Thou'll see a streamlet run, Which I've imbued with breathing melody;[7] And there, when night-winds down the current die, Thou'lt hear how like a harp its waters sigh: A liquid chord is every wave that flows, An airy plectrum every breeze that blows.

There, by that wondrous stream, Go, lay thy languid brow, And I will send thee such a godlike dream, As never blest the slumbers even of him,[8] Who, many a night, with his primordial lyre, Sate on the chill Pangaean mount,[9] And, looking to the orient dim, Watched the first flowing of that sacred fount, From which his soul had drunk its fire. Oh think what visions, in that lonely hour, Stole o'er his musing breast; What pious ecstasy Wafted his prayer to that eternal Power, Whose seal upon this new-born world imprest The various forms of bright divinity! Or, dost thou know what dreams I wove, Mid the deep horror of that silent bower,[10] Where the rapt Samian slept his holy slumber? When, free From every earthly chain, From wreaths of pleasure and from bonds of pain, His spirit flew through fields above, Drank at the source of nature's fontal number, And saw, in mystic choir, around him move The stars of song, Heaven's burning minstrelsy! Such dreams, so heavenly bright, I swear By the great diadem that twines my hair, And by the seven gems that sparkle there, Mingling their beams In a soft iris of harmonious light, Oh, mortal! such shall be thy radiant dreams.

* * * * *

I found her not—the chamber seemed Like some divinely haunted place Where fairy forms had lately beamed, And left behind their odorous trace!

It felt as if her lips had shed A sigh around her, ere she fled, Which hung, as on a melting lute, When all the silver chords are mute, There lingers still a trembling breath After the note's luxurious death, A shade of song, a spirit air Of melodies which had been there.

I saw the veil, which, all the day, Had floated o'er her cheek of rose; I saw the couch, where late she lay In languor of divine repose; And I could trace the hallowed print Her limbs had left, as pure and warm, As if 'twere done in rapture's mint, And Love himself had stamped the form.

Oh my sweet mistress, where wert thou? In pity fly not thus from me; Thou art my life, my essence now, And my soul dies of wanting thee.

[1] In the "Histoire Naturelle des Antilles," there is an account of some curious shells, found at Curacoa, on the back of which were lines, filled with musical characters so distinct and perfect, that the writer assures us a very charming trio was sung from one of them. The author adds, a poet might imagine that these shells were used by the syrens at their concerts.

[2] According to Cicero, and his commentator, Macrobius, the lunar tone is the gravest and faintest on the planetary heptachord.

[3] Leucippus, the atomist, imagined a kind of vortices in the heavens, which he borrowed from Anaxagoras, and possibly suggested to Descartes.

[4] Heraclides, upon the allegories of Homer, conjectures that the idea of the harmony of the spheres originated with this poet, who, in representing the solar beams as arrows, supposes them to emit a peculiar sound in the air.

[5] In the account of Africa which D'Ablancourt has translated, there is mention of a tree in that country, whose branches, when shaken by the hand produce very sweet sounds.

[6] Alluding to the extinction, or at least the disappearance, of some of those fixed stars, which we are taught to consider as suns, attended each by its system. Descartes thought that our earth might formerly have been a sun, which became obscured by a thick incrustation over its surface. This probably suggested the idea of a central fire.

[7] This musical river is mentioned in the romance of Achilles Tatius.

[8] Orpheus.

[9] Eratosthenes, in mentioning the extreme veneration of Orpheus for Apollo, says that he was accustomed to go to the Pangaean mountain at daybreak, and there wait the rising of the sun, that he might be the first to hail its beams.

[10] Alluding to the cave near Samos, where Pythagoras devoted the greater part of his days and nights to meditation and the mysteries of his philosophy.



TO MRS. HENRY TIGHE,

ON READING HER "PSYCHE."

Tell me the witching tale again, For never has my heart or ear Hung on so sweet, so pure a strain, So pure to feel, so sweet to hear.

Say, Love, in all thy prime of fame, When the high heaven itself was thine; When piety confest the flame, And even thy errors were divine;

Did ever Muse's hand, so fair, A glory round thy temple spread? Did ever lip's ambrosial air Such fragrance o'er thy altars shed?

One maid there was, who round her lyre The mystic myrtle wildly wreathed;— But all her sighs were sighs of fire, The myrtle withered as she breathed.

Oh! you that love's celestial dream, In all its purity, would know, Let not the senses' ardent beam Too strongly through the vision glow.

Love safest lies, concealed in night, The night where heaven has bid him lie; Oh! shed not there unhallowed light, Or, Psyche knows, the boy will fly.

Sweet Psyche, many a charmed hour, Through many a wild and magic waste, To the fair fount and blissful bower Have I, in dreams, thy light foot traced!

Where'er thy joys are numbered now, Beneath whatever shades of rest, The Genius of the starry brow Hath bound thee to thy Cupid's breast;

Whether above the horizon dim, Along whose verge our spirits stray,— Half sunk beneath the shadowy rim, Half brightened by the upper ray,[1]—

Thou dwellest in a world, all light, Or, lingering here, doth love to be, To other souls, the guardian bright That Love was, through this gloom, to thee;

Still be the song to Psyche dear, The song, whose gentle voice was given To be, on earth, to mortal ear, An echo of her own, in heaven.

[1] By this image the Platonists expressed the middle state of the soul between sensible and intellectual existence.



FROM THE HIGH PRIEST OF APOLLO TO A VIRGIN OF DELPHI.[1]

Cum digno digna..... SULPICIA.

"Who is the maid, with golden hair, "With eye of fire, and foot of air, "Whose harp around my altar swells, "The sweetest of a thousand shells?" 'Twas thus the deity, who treads The arch of heaven, and proudly sheds Day from his eyelids—thus he spoke, As through my cell his glories broke.

Aphelia is the Delphic fair[2] With eyes of fire and golden hair, Aphelia's are the airy feet. And hers the harp divinely sweet; For foot so light has never trod The laurelled caverns of the god. Nor harp so soft hath ever given A sigh to earth or hymn to heaven.

"Then tell the virgin to unfold, "In looser pomp, her locks of gold, "And bid those eyes more fondly shine "To welcome down a Spouse Divine; "Since He, who lights the path of years— "Even from the fount of morning's tears "To where his setting splendors burn "Upon the western sea-maid's urn— "Doth not, in all his course, behold "Such eyes of fire, such hair of gold. "Tell her, he comes, in blissful pride, "His lip yet sparkling with the tide "That mantles in Olympian bowls,— "The nectar of eternal souls! "For her, for her he quits the skies, "And to her kiss from nectar flies. "Oh, he would quit his star-throned height, "And leave the world to pine for light, "Might he but pass the hours of shade, "Beside his peerless Delphic maid, "She, more than earthly woman blest, "He, more than god on woman's breast!"

There is a cave beneath the steep,[3] Where living rills of crystal weep O'er herbage of the loveliest hue That ever spring begemmed with dew: There oft the greensward's glossy tint Is brightened by the recent print Of many a faun and naiad's feet,— Scarce touching earth, their step so fleet,— That there, by moonlight's ray, had trod, In light dance, o'er the verdant sod. "There, there," the god, impassioned, said, "Soon as the twilight tinge is fled, "And the dim orb of lunar souls "Along its shadowy pathway rolls— "There shall we meet,—and not even He, "The God who reigns immortally, "Where Babel's turrets paint their pride "Upon the Euphrates' shining tide,[4]— "Not even when to his midnight loves "In mystic majesty he moves, "Lighted by many an odorous fire, "And hymned by all Chaldaea's choir,— "E'er yet, o'er mortal brow, let shine "Such effluence of Love Divine, "As shall to-night, blest maid, o'er thine."

Happy the maid, whom heaven allows To break for heaven her virgin vows! Happy the maid!—her robe of shame Is whitened by a heavenly flame, Whose glory, with a lingering trace, Shines through and deifies her race!

[1] This poem, as well as a few others in the following volume, formed part of a work which I had early projected, and even announced to the public, but which, luckily, perhaps, for myself, had been interrupted by my visit to America in the year 1803.

[2] In the 9th Pythic of Pindar, where Apollo, in the same manner, requires of Chiron some information respecting the fair Cyrene, the Centaur, in obeying, very gravely apologizes for telling the God what his omniscience must know so perfectly already.

[3] The Corycian Cave, which Pausanias mentions. The inhabitants of Parnassus held it sacred to the Corycian nymphs, who were children of the river Plistus.

[4] The temple of Jupiter Belus, at Babylon; in one of whose towers there was a large chapel set apart for these celestial assignations. "No man is allowed to sleep here," says Herodotus; "but the apartment is appropriated to a female, whom, if we believe the Chaldaean priests, the deity selects from the women of the country, as his favorite."



FRAGMENT.

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 has drawn the placid balm, Which charmed its every grief away, Ah! there I find that balm no more. Those spells, which make us oft forget The fleeting troubles of the day, In deeper sorrows only whet The stings they cannot tear away. When to my pillow racked I fly, With weary sense and wakeful eye. While my brain maddens, where, oh, where Is that serene consoling prayer, Which once has harbingered my rest, When the still soothing voice of Heaven Hath seemed 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 even the name of Deity Is murmured out in sighs for thee.



A NIGHT THOUGHT.

How oft a cloud, with envious veil, Obscures yon bashful light, Which seems so modestly to steal Along the waste of night!

'Tis thus the world's obtrusive wrongs Obscure with malice keen Some timid heart, which only longs To live and die unseen.



THE KISS.

Grow to my lip, thou sacred kiss, On which my soul's beloved swore That there should come a time of bliss, When she would mock my hopes no more. And fancy shall thy glow renew, In sighs at morn, and dreams at night, And none shall steal thy holy dew Till thou'rt absolved by rapture's rite. Sweet hours that are to make me blest, Fly, swift as breezes, to the goal, And let my love, my more than soul, Come blushing to this ardent breast. Then, while in every glance I drink The rich overflowing of her mind, Oh! let her all enamored sink In sweet abandonment resigned, Blushing for all our struggles past, And murmuring, "I am thine at last!"



SONG.

Think on that look whose melting ray For one sweet moment mixt with mine, And for that moment seemed to say, "I dare not, or I would be thine!"

Think on thy every smile and glance, On all thou hast to charm and move; And then forgive my bosom's trance, Nor tell me it is sin to love.

Oh, not to love thee were the sin; For sure, if Fate's decrees be done, Thou, thou art destined still to win, As I am destined to be won!



THE CATALOGUE.

"Come, tell me," says Rosa, as kissing and kist, One day she reclined on my breast; "Come, tell me the number, repeat me the list "Of the nymphs you have loved and carest."— Oh Rosa! 'twas only my fancy that roved, My heart at the moment was free; But I'll tell thee, my girl, how many I've loved, And the number shall finish with thee.

My tutor was Kitty; in infancy wild She taught me the way to be blest; She taught me to love her, I loved like a child, But Kitty could fancy the rest. This lesson of dear and enrapturing lore I have never forgot, I allow: I have had it by rote very often before, But never by heart until now.

Pretty Martha was next, and my soul was all flame, But my head was so full of romance That I fancied her into some chivalry dame, And I was her knight of the lance. But Martha was not of this fanciful school, And she laughed at her poor little knight; While I thought her a goddess, she thought me a fool, And I'll swear she was most in the right.

My soul was now calm, till, by Cloris's looks, Again I was tempted to rove; But Cloris, I found, was so learned in books That she gave me more logic than love. So I left this young Sappho, and hastened to fly To those sweeter logicians in bliss, Who argue the point with a soul-telling eye, And convince us at once with a kiss.

Oh! Susan was then all the world unto me, But Susan was piously given; And the worst of it was, we could never agree On the road that was shortest to Heaven. "Oh, Susan!" I've said, in the moments of mirth, "What's devotion to thee or to me? "I devoutly believe there's a heaven on earth, "And believe that that heaven's in thee!"



IMITATION OF CATULLUS.

TO HIMSELF.

Miser Catulle, desinas ineptire, etc.

Cease the sighing fool to play; Cease to trifle life away; Nor vainly think those joys thine own, Which all, alas, have falsely flown. What hours, Catullus, once were thine. How fairly seemed thy day to shine, When lightly thou didst fly to meet The girl whose smile was then so sweet— The girl thou lovedst with fonder pain Than e'er thy heart can feel again.

Ye met—your souls seemed all in one, Like tapers that commingling shone; Thy heart was warm enough for both, And hers, in truth, was nothing loath.

Such were the hours that once were thine; But, ah! those hours no longer shine. For now the nymph delights no more In what she loved so much before; And all Catullus now can do, Is to be proud and frigid too;

Nor follow where the wanton flies, Nor sue the bliss that she denies. False maid! he bids farewell to thee, To love, and all love's misery; The heyday of his heart is o'er, Nor will he court one favor more.

Fly, perjured girl!—but whither fly? Who now will praise thy cheek and eye? Who now will drink the syren tone, Which tells him thou art all his own? Oh, none:—and he who loved before Can never, never love thee more.

* * * * *

"Neither do I condemn thee; go, and sin no more!" —ST. JOHN, chap. viii.

Oh woman, if through sinful wile Thy soul hath strayed from honor's track, 'Tis mercy only can beguile, By gentle ways, the wanderer back.

The stain that on thy virtue lies, Washed by those tears, not long will stay; As clouds that sully morning skies May all be wept in showers away.

Go, go, be innocent,—and live; The tongues of men may wound thee sore; But Heaven in pity can forgive, And bids thee "go, and sin no more!"



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!



EPIGRAM.

FROM THE FRENCH.

"I never gave a kiss (says Prue), "To naughty man, for I abhor it." She will not give a kiss, 'tis true; She'll take one though, and thank you for it.



ON A SQUINTING POETESS.

To no one Muse does she her glance confine, But has an eye, at once, to all the Nine!



TO .... ....

Maria pur quando vuol, non e bisogna mutar ni faccia ni voce per esser un Angelo.[1]

Die when you will, you need not wear At Heaven's Court a form more fair Than Beauty here on earth has given; Keep but the lovely looks we see— The voice we hear—and you will be An angel ready-made for Heaven!

[1] The words addressed by Lord Herbert of Cherbury to the beautiful Nun at Murano.—See his Life.



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?

Tell me at once if this be true, And I will calm my jealous breast; Will 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 hateful tale to me, But mingle mercy with your art.

I'd rather think you "false as hell," Than find you to be all divine,— Than know that heart could love so well, Yet know that heart would not be mine!



TO PHILLIS.

Phillis, you little rosy rake, That heart of yours I long to rifle; Come, give it me, and do not make So much ado about a trifle!



TO A LADY.

ON HER SINGING.

Thy song has taught my heart to feel Those soothing thoughts of heavenly love, Which o'er the sainted spirits steal When listening 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?



SONG.

ON THE BIRTHDAY OF MRS. ——.

WRITTEN IN IRELAND. 1799.

Of all my happiest hours of joy, And even I have had my measure, When hearts were full, and every eye Hath kindled with the light of pleasure, An hour like this I ne'er was given, So full of friendship's purest blisses; Young Love himself looks down from heaven, To smile on such a day as this is. Then come, my friends, this hour improve, Let's feel as if we ne'er could sever; And may the birth of her we love Be thus with joy remembered ever!

Oh! banish every thought to-night, Which could disturb our soul's communion; Abandoned thus to dear delight, We'll even for once forget the Union! On that let statesmen try their powers, And tremble o'er the rights they'd die for; The union of the soul be ours, And every union else we sigh for. Then come, my friends, etc.

In every eye around I mark The feelings of the heart o'er-flowing; From every soul I catch the spark Of sympathy, in friendship glowing. Oh! could such moments ever fly; Oh! that we ne'er were doomed to lose 'em; And all as bright as Charlotte's eye, And all as pure as Charlotte's bosom. Then come, my friends, etc.

For me, whate'er my span of years, Whatever sun may light my roving; Whether I waste my life in tears, Or live, as now, for mirth and loving; This day shall come with aspect kind, Wherever fate may cast your rover; He'll think of those he left behind, And drink a health to bliss that's over! Then come, my friends, etc.



SONG.[1]

Mary, I believed thee true, And I was blest in thus believing But now I mourn that e'er I knew A girl so fair and so deceiving. Fare thee well.

Few have ever loved like me,— Yes, I have loved thee too sincerely! And few have e'er deceived like thee.— Alas! deceived me too severely.

Fare thee well!—yet think awhile On one whose bosom bleeds to doubt thee: Who now would rather trust that smile, And die with thee than live without thee.

Fare thee well! I'll think of thee. Thou leavest me many a bitter token; For see, distracting woman, see, My peace is gone, my heart is broken!— Fare thee well!

[1] These words were written to the pathetic Scotch air "Galla Water."



MORALITY.

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE.

ADDRESSED TO J. ATKINSON, ESQ. M. R. I. A.

Though long at school and college dozing. O'er books of verse and books of prosing, And copying from their moral pages Fine recipes for making sages; Though long with' those divines at school, Who think to make us good by rule; Who, in methodic forms advancing, Teaching morality like dancing, Tell us, for Heaven or money's sake. What steps we are through life to take: Though thus, my friend, so long employed, With so much midnight oil destroyed, I must confess my searches past, I've only learned to doubt at last I find the doctors and the sages Have differed in all climes and ages, And two in fifty scarce agree On what is pure morality. 'Tis like the rainbow's shifting zone, And every vision makes its own.

The doctors of the Porch advise, As modes of being great and wise, That we should cease to own or know The luxuries that from feeling flow; "Reason alone must claim direction, "And Apathy's the soul's perfection. "Like a dull lake the heart must lie; "Nor passion's gale nor pleasure's sigh, "Though Heaven the breeze, the breath, supplied, "Must curl the wave or swell the tide!"

Such was the rigid Zeno's plan To form his philosophic man; Such were the modes he taught mankind To weed the garden of the mind; They tore from thence some weeds, 'tis true, But all the flowers were ravaged too!

Now listen to the wily strains, Which, on Cyrene's sandy plains, When Pleasure, nymph with loosened zone, Usurped the philosophic throne,— Hear what the courtly sage's[1] tongue To his surrounding pupils sung:— "Pleasure's the only noble end "To which all human powers should tend, "And Virtue gives her heavenly lore, "But to make Pleasure please us more. "Wisdom and she were both designed "To make the senses more refined, "That man might revel, free from cloying, "Then most a sage when most enjoying!"

Is this morality?—Oh, no! Even I a wiser path could show. The flower within this vase confined, The pure, the unfading flower of mind, Must not throw all its sweets away Upon a mortal mould of clay; No, no,—its richest breath should rise In virtue's incense to the skies.

But thus it is, all sects we see Have watchwords of morality: Some cry out Venus, others Jove; Here 'tis Religion, there 'tis Love. But while they thus so widely wander, While mystics dream and doctors ponder: And some, in dialectics firm, Seek virtue in a middle term; While thus they strive, in Heaven's defiance, To chain morality with science; The plain good man, whose action teach More virtue than a sect can preach Pursues his course, unsagely blest His tutor whispering in his breast; Nor could he act a purer part, Though he had Tully all by heart. And when he drops the tear on woe, He little knows or cares to know That Epictetus blamed that tear, By Heaven approved, to virtue dear!

Oh! when I've seen the morning beam Floating within the dimpled stream; While Nature, wakening from the night, Has just put on her robes of light, Have I, with cold optician's gaze, Explored the doctrine of those rays? No, pedants, I have left to you Nicely to separate hue from hue. Go, give that moment up to art, When Heaven and nature claim the heart; And, dull to all their best attraction, Go—measure angles of refraction. While I, in feeling's sweet romance, Look on each daybeam as a glance From the great eye of Him above, Wakening his world with looks of love!

[1] Aristippus.



THE TELL-TALE LYRE.

I've heard, there was in ancient days A Lyre of most melodious spell; 'Twas heaven to hear its fairy lays, If half be true that legends tell.

'Twas played on by the gentlest sighs, And to their breath it breathed again In such entrancing melodies As ear had never drunk till then!

Not harmony's serenest touch So stilly could the notes prolong; They were not heavenly song so much As they were dreams of heavenly song!

If sad the heart, whose murmuring air Along the chords in languor stole, The numbers it awakened there Were eloquence from pity's soul.

Or if the sigh, serene and light, Was but the breath of fancied woes, The string, that felt its airy flight, Soon whispered it to kind repose.

And when young lovers talked alone, If, mid their bliss, that Lyre was near, It made their accents all its own, And sent forth notes that heaven might hear.

There was a nymph, who long had loved, But dared not tell the world how well: The shades, where she at evening roved, Alone could know, alone could tell.

'Twas there, at twilight time, she stole, When the first star announced the night,— With him who claimed her inmost soul, To wander by that soothing light.

It chanced that, in the fairy bower Where blest they wooed each other's smile, This Lyre, of strange and magic power, Hung whispering o'er their head the while.

And as, with eyes commingling fire, They listened to each other's vow, The youth full oft would make the Lyre A pillow for the maiden's brow!

And, while the melting words she breathed Were by its echoes wafted round, Her locks had with the chords so wreathed, One knew not which gave forth the sound.

Alas, their hearts but little thought, While thus they talked the hours away, That every sound the Lyre was taught Would linger long, and long betray.

So mingled with its tuneful soul Were all the tender murmurs grown, That other sighs unanswered stole, Nor words it breathed but theirs alone.

Unhappy nymph! thy name was sung To every breeze that wandered by; The secrets of thy gentle tongue Were breathed in song to earth and sky.

The fatal Lyre, by Envy's hand Hung high amid the whispering groves, To every gale by which 'twas fanned, Proclaimed the mystery of your loves.

Nor long thus rudely was thy name To earth's derisive echoes given; Some pitying spirit downward came. And took the Lyre and thee to heaven.

There, freed from earth's unholy wrongs, Both happy in Love's home shall be; Thou, uttering naught but seraph songs, And that sweet Lyre still echoing thee!



PEACE AND GLORY.

WRITTEN ON THE APPROACH OF WAR.

Where is now the smile, that lightened Every hero's couch of rest? Where is now the hope, that brightened Honor's eye and Pity's breast? Have we lost the wreath we braided For our weary warrior men? Is the faithless olive faded? Must the bay be plucked again?

Passing hour of sunny weather, Lovely, in your light awhile, Peace and Glory, wed together, Wandered through our blessed isle. And the eyes of Peace would glisten, Dewy as a morning sun, When the timid maid would listen To the deeds her chief had done.

Is their hour of dalliance over? Must the maiden's trembling feet Waft her from her warlike lover To the desert's still retreat? Fare you well! with sighs we banish Nymph so fair and guests so bright; Yet the smile, with which you vanish, Leaves behind a soothing light;—

Soothing light, that long shall sparkle O'er your warrior's sanguined way, Through the field where horrors darkle, Shedding hope's consoling ray. Long the smile his heart will cherish, To its absent idol true; While around him myriads perish, Glory still will sigh for you!



SONG.

Take back the sigh, thy lips of art In passion's moment breathed to me; Yet, no—it must not, will not part, 'Tis now the life-breath of my heart, And has become too pure for thee.

Take back the kiss, that faithless sigh With all the warmth of truth imprest; Yet, no—the fatal kiss may lie, Upon thy lip its sweets would die, Or bloom to make a rival blest.

Take back the vows that, night and day, My heart received, I thought, from thine; Yet, no—allow them still to stay, They might some other heart betray, As sweetly as they've ruined mine.



LOVE AND REASON.

Quand l'homme commence a raissonner, il cesse de sentir.—J. J. ROUSSEAU.

'Twas in the summer time so sweet, When hearts and flowers are both in season, That—who, of all the world, should meet, One early dawn, but Love and Reason!

Love told his dream of yesternight, While Reason talked about the weather; The morn, in sooth, was fair and bright, And on they took their way together.

The boy in many a gambol flew, While Reason, like a Juno, stalked, And from her portly figure threw A lengthened shadow, as she walked.

No wonder Love, as on they past, Should find that sunny morning chill, For still the shadow Reason cast Fell o'er the boy, and cooled him still.

In vain he tried his wings to warm. Or find a pathway not so dim For still the maid's gigantic form Would stalk between the sun and him.

"This must not be," said little Love— "The sun was made for more than you." So, turning through a myrtle grove, He bid the portly nymph adieu.

Now gayly roves the laughing boy O'er many a mead, by many a stream; In every breeze inhaling joy, And drinking bliss in every beam.

From all the gardens, all the bowers, He culled the many sweets they shaded, And ate the fruits and smelled the flowers, Till taste was gone and odor faded.

But now the sun, in pomp of noon, Looked blazing o'er the sultry plains; Alas! the boy grew languid soon, And fever thrilled through all his veins.

The dew forsook his baby brow, No more with healthy bloom he smiled— Oh! where was tranquil Reason now, To cast her shadow o'er the child?

Beneath a green and aged palm, His foot at length for shelter turning, He saw the nymph reclining calm, With brow as cool as his was burning.

"Oh! take me to that bosom cold," In murmurs at her feet he said; And Reason oped her garment's fold, And flung it round his fevered head.

He felt her bosom's icy touch, And soon it lulled his pulse to rest; For, ah! the chill was quite too much, And Love expired on Reason's breast!

* * * * *

Nay, do not weep, my Fanny dear; While in these arms you lie. This world hath not a wish, a fear, That ought to cost that eye a tear. That heart, one single sigh.

The world!—ah, Fanny, Love must shun The paths where many rove; One bosom to recline upon, One heart to be his only—one, Are quite enough for Love.

What can we wish, that is not here Between your arms and mine? Is there, on earth, a space so dear As that within the happy sphere Two loving arms entwine?

For me, there's not a lock of jet Adown your temples curled, Within whose glossy, tangling net, My soul doth not, at once, forget All, all this worthless world.

'Tis in those eyes, so full of love, My only worlds I see; Let but their orbs in sunshine move, And earth below and skies above May frown or smile for me.



ASPASIA.

'Twas in the fair Aspasia's bower, That Love and Learning, many an hour, In dalliance met; and Learning smiled With pleasure on the playful child, Who often stole, to find a nest Within the folds of Learning's vest.

There, as the listening statesman hung In transport on Aspasia's tongue, The destinies of Athens took Their color from Aspasia's look. Oh happy time, when laws of state When all that ruled the country's fate, Its glory, quiet, or alarms, Was planned between two snow-white arms!

Blest times! they could not always last— And yet, even now, they are not past, Though we have lost the giant mould. In which their men were cast of old, Woman, dear woman, still the same, While beauty breathes through soul or frame, While man possesses heart or eyes, Woman's bright empire never dies!

No, Fanny, love, they ne'er shall say, That beauty's charm hath past away; Give but the universe a soul Attuned to woman's soft control, And Fanny hath the charm, the skill, To wield a universe at will.



THE GRECIAN GIRL'S DREAM OF THE BLESSED ISLANDS.[1]

TO HER LOVER.

Was it the moon, or was it morning's ray, That call'd thee, dearest, from these arms away? Scarce hadst thou left me, when a dream of night Came o'er my spirit so distinct and bright, That, while I yet can vividly recall Its witching wonders, thou shall hear them all. Methought I saw, upon the lunar beam, Two winged boys, such as thy muse might dream, Descending from above, at that still hour, And gliding, with smooth step, into my bower. Fair as the beauteous spirits that, all day. In Amatha's warm founts imprisoned stay, But rise at midnight, from the enchanted rill, To cool their plumes upon some moonlight hill.

At once I knew their mission:—'twas to bear My spirit upward, through the paths of air, To that elysian realm, from whence stray beams So oft, in sleep, had visited my dreams. Swift at their touch dissolved the ties, that clung All earthly round me, and aloft I sprung; While, heavenward guides, the little genii flew Thro' paths of light, refreshed by heaven's own dew, And fanned by airs still fragrant with the breath Of cloudless climes and worlds that know not death.

Thou knowest, that, far beyond our nether sky, And shown but dimly to man's erring eye, A mighty ocean of blue ether rolls,[2] Gemmed with bright islands, where the chosen souls, Who've past in lore and love their earthly hours, Repose for ever in unfading bowers. That very moon, whose solitary light So often guides thee to my bower at night, Is no chill planet, but an isle of love, Floating in splendor through those seas above, And peopled with bright forms, aerial grown, Nor knowing aught of earth but love alone. Thither, I thought, we winged our airy way:— Mild o'er its valleys streamed a silvery day, While, all around, on lily beds of rest, Reclined the spirits of the immortal Blest. Oh! there I met those few congenial maids, Whom love hath warmed, in philosophic shades; There still Leontium,[3] on her sage's breast, Found lore and love, was tutored and carest; And there the clasp of Pythia's[4]gentle arms Repaid the zeal which deified her charms. The Attic Master,[5] in Aspasia's eyes, Forgot the yoke of less endearing ties; While fair Theano,[6] innocently fair, Wreathed playfully her Samian's flowing hair, Whose soul now fixt, its transmigrations past, Found in those arms a resting-place, at last; And smiling owned, whate'er his dreamy thought In mystic numbers long had vainly sought, The One that's formed of Two whom love hath bound, Is the best number gods or men e'er found.

But think, my Theon, with what joy I thrilled, When near a fount, which through the valley rilled, My fancy's eye beheld a form recline, Of lunar race, but so resembling thine That, oh! 'twas but fidelity in me, To fly, to clasp, and worship it for thee. No aid of words the unbodied soul requires, To waft a wish or embassy desires; But by a power, to spirits only given, A deep, mute impulse, only felt in heaven, Swifter than meteor shaft through summer skies, From soul to soul the glanced idea flies.

Oh, my beloved, how divinely sweet Is the pure joy, when kindred spirits meet! Like him, the river-god,[7]whose waters flow, With love their only light, through caves below, Wafting in triumph all the flowery braids, And festal rings, with which Olympic maids Have decked his current, as an offering meet To lay at Arethusa's shining feet.

Think, when he meets at last his fountain-bride, What perfect love must thrill the blended tide! Each lost in each, till, mingling into one, Their lot the same for shadow or for sun, A type of true love, to the deep they run. 'Twas thus— But, Theon, 'tis an endless theme, And thou growest weary of my half-told dream.

Oh would, my love, we were together now. And I would woo sweet patience to thy brow, And make thee smile at all the magic tales Of starlight bowers and planetary vales, Which my fond soul, inspired by thee and love, In slumber's loom hath fancifully wove. But no; no more—soon as tomorrow's ray O'er soft Ilissus shall have died away, I'll come, and, while love's planet in the west Shines o'er our meeting, tell thee all the rest.

[1] It was imagined by some of the ancients that there is an ethereal ocean above us, and that the sun and moon are two floating, luminous islands, in which the spirits of the blest reside.

[2] This belief of an ocean in the heavens, or "waters above the firmament," was one of the many physical errors In which the early fathers bewildered themselves.

[3] The pupil and mistress of Epicurus, who called her his "dear little Leontium" as appears by a fragment of one of his letters in Laertius. This Leontium was a woman of talent; "she had the impudence (says Cicero) to write against Theophrastus;" and Cicero, at the same time, gives her a name which is neither polite nor translatable.

[4] Pythia was a woman whom Aristotle loved, and to whom after her death he paid divine honors, solemnizing her memory by the same sacrifices which the Athenians offered to the Goddess Ceres.

[5] Socrates, who used to console himself in the society of Aspasia for those "less endearing ties" which he found at home with Xantippe.

[6] There are some sensible letters extant under the name of this fair Pythagorean. They are addressed to her female friends upon the education of children, the treatment of servants, etc.

[7] The river Alpheus, which flowed by Pisa or Olympia, and into which it was customary to throw offerings of different kinds, during the celebration of the Olympic games. In the pretty romance of Clitophon and Leucippe, the river is supposed to carry these offerings as bridal gifts to the fountain Arethusa.



TO CLOE.

IMITATED FROM MARTIAL.

I could resign that eye of blue. How e'er its splendor used to thrill me; And even that cheek of roseate hue,— To lose it, Cloe, scarce would kill me.

That snowy neck I ne'er should miss, However much I've raved about it; And sweetly as that lip can kiss, I think I could exist without it.

In short, so well I've learned to fast, That, sooth my love, I know not whether I might not bring myself at last, To—do without you altogether.



THE WREATH AND THE CHAIN.

I bring thee, love, a golden chain, I bring thee too a flowery wreath; The gold shall never wear a stain, The flowerets long shall sweetly breathe. Come, tell me which the tie shall be, To bind thy gentle heart to me.

The Chain is formed of golden threads, Bright as Minerva's yellow hair, When the last beam of evening sheds Its calm and sober lustre there. The Wreath's of brightest myrtle wove, With sunlit drops of bliss among it, And many a rose-leaf, culled by Love, To heal his lip when bees have stung it. Come, tell me which the tie shall be, To bind thy gentle heart to me.

Yes, yes, I read that ready eye, Which answers when the tongue is loath, Thou likest the form of either tie, And spreadest thy playful hands for both. Ah!—if there were not something wrong, The world would see them blended oft; The Chain would make the Wreath so strong! The Wreath would make the Chain so soft! Then might the gold, the flowerets be Sweet fetters for my love and me.

But, Fanny, so unblest they twine, That (heaven alone can tell the reason) When mingled thus they cease to shine, Or shine but for a transient season. Whether the Chain may press too much, Or that the Wreath is slightly braided, Let but the gold the flowerets touch, And all their bloom, their glow is faded! Oh! better to be always free. Than thus to bind my love to me.

* * * * *

The timid girl now hung her head, And, as she turned an upward glance, I saw a doubt its twilight spread Across her brow's divine expanse Just then, the garland's brightest rose Gave one of its love-breathing sighs— Oh! who can ask how Fanny chose, That ever looked in Fanny's eyes! "The Wreath, my life, the Wreath shall be "The tie to bind my soul to thee."



TO .... ....

And hast thou marked the pensive shade, That many a time obscures my brow, Midst all the joys, beloved maid. Which thou canst give, and only thou?

Oh! 'tis not that I then forget The bright looks that before me shine; For never throbbed a bosom yet Could feel their witchery, like mine.

When bashful on my bosom hid, And blushing to have felt so blest, Thou dost but lift thy languid lid Again to close it on my breast;—

Yes,—these are minutes all thine own, Thine own to give, and mine to feel; Yet even in them, my heart has known The sigh to rise, the tear to steal.

For I have thought of former hours, When he who first thy soul possest, Like me awaked its witching powers, Like me was loved, like me was blest.

Upon his name thy murmuring tongue Perhaps hath all as sweetly dwelt; Upon his words thine ear hath hung, With transport all as purely felt.

For him—yet why the past recall, To damp and wither present bliss? Thou'rt now my own, heart, spirit, all, And heaven could grant no more than this!

Forgive me, dearest, oh! forgive; I would be first, be sole to thee, Thou shouldst have but begun to live, The hour that gave thy heart to me.

Thy book of life till then effaced, Love should have kept that leaf alone On which he first so brightly traced That thou wert, soul and all, my own.



TO .......'S PICTURE.

Go then, if she, whose shade thou art, No more will let thee soothe my pain; Yet, tell her, it has cost this heart Some pangs, to give thee back again.