For ever fatal, yet for ever dear;
And ye, that heard my sighs
When first she charm'd my eyes,
Soft-breathing gales! my dying accents hear.
If Heaven has fix'd my doom,
That Love must quite consume

My bursting heart, and close my eyes in death;
Ah! grant this slight request,-

That, here my urn may rest,

When to its mansion flies my

vital breath.

This pleasing hope will smooth My anxious mind, and sooth The pangs of that inevitable hour;

My spirit will not grieve

Her mortal veil to leave

In these calm shades, and this enchanting bower. Haply, the guilty maid

Through yon accustom'd glade

To sad tomb will take her lonely way; my

Where first her beauty's light

O'erpower'd my dazzled sight,

When love on this fair border bade me stray:
There, sorrowing, shall she see,

Beneath an aged tree,

Her true, but hapless, lover's lowly bier;

Too late, her tender sighs

Shall melt the pitying skies,

And her soft veil shall hide the gushing tear.

O! well remember'd day,

When on yon bank she lay,

Meek in her pride, and in her rigour mild;
The young and blooming flowers,

Falling in fragrant showers,

Shone on her neck, and on her bosom smiled :

Some on her mantle hung,

Some in her locks were strung,

Like orient gems in rings of flaming gold;
Some, in a spicy cloud

Descending, call'd aloud,

'Here Love and Youth the reins of empire hold.'

I view'd the heavenly maid;

And, rapt in wonder, said

The groves of Eden gave this angel birth ;'
Her look, her voice, her smile,

That might all Heaven beguile,
Wafted my soul above the realms of earth:

The star-bespangled skies

Were open'd to my eyes;

scene?'

Sighing I said, 'Whence rose this glittering

Since that auspicious hour,

This bank, and odorous bower,

My morning couch and evening haunt have been. Well mayst thou blush, my song,

To leave the rural throng,

And fly thus artless to my Laura's ear;

But, were thy poet's fire

Ardent as his desire,

Thou wert a song that Heaven might stoop to hear.

How sweet the gale of morning breathes! Sweet news of my delight he brings;

News, that the rose will soon approach
Soon will a thousand parted souls
Since tidings, which in every heart
Late near my charmer's flowing robe
Thence, odour to the rose-bud's veil,
Painful is absence, and that pain
Thou know'st, dear maid! when to thine ear
Why should I trace love's mazy path,
Black destiny! my lot is woe,
In vain, a friend his mind disturbs,
When sage physician to the couch,
A roving stranger in thy town
Till this his name, and rambling lay,

the tuneful bird of night, he brings.
be led, his captives, through the sky,
must ardent flames excite, he brings.
he pass'd, and kiss'd the fragrant hem;
and jasmine's mantle white, he brings.
to some base rival oft is owed;

false tales, contrived in spite, he brings.
since destiny my bliss forbids?
to me no ray of light he brings.
in vain a childish trouble gives,
of heartsick lovelorn wight, he brings.
no guidance can sad Jami find,
to thine all-piercing sight he brings.

THE MUSE RECALLED.

An Ove.

ON THE NUPTIALS OF LORD VISCOUNT ALTHORP, NOW EARL SPENSER, AND MISS LAVINIA BINGHAM, ELDEST DAUGHTER OF CHARLES, LORD LUCAN.

MARCH 6, 1781.

RETURN, celestial Muse!

By whose bright fingers o'er my infant head,
Lull'd with immortal symphony, were spread
Fresh bays and flowerets of a thousand hues:
Return! thy golden lyre,

Chorded with sunny rays of temper'd fire,
Which in Astræa's fane I fondly hung,
Bold I reclaim: but ah, sweet maid,
Bereft of thy propitious aid

My voice is tuneless, and my harp unstrung.
In vain I call-what charm, what potent spell
Shall kindle into life the long unwaken'd shell?

Haste! the well wrought basket' bring,
Which two sister graces wove,
When the third, whose praise I sing,
Blushing sought the bridal grove,
Where the slow-descending sun
Gilt the bowers of Wimbledon.
In the vase mysterious fling
Pinks and roses gemm'd with dew,
Flowers of every varied hue,

Daughters fair of early spring,

Laughing sweet with sapphire eyes,

Or with Iris' mingled dyes:

Miss Louisa Bingham, and Miss Frances Molesworth her cousin, decked a basket with ribands and flowers to hold the nuptial presents.

K

Then around the basket go,
Tripping light with silent pace,
While, with solemn voice and slow
Thrice pronouncing thrice I trace
On the silken texture bright,
Character'd in beamy light,

Names of more than mortal power,
Sweetest influence to diffuse;

Names that from her shadiest bower
Draw the soft reluctant Muse.

First, I with living gems enchase
The name of her, whom for this festive day
With zone and mantle elegantly gay
The Graces have adorn'd, herself a Grace,
Molesworth-hark! a swelling note
Seems on Zephyr's wing to float,
Or has vain hope my flatter'd sense beguiled?
Next her who braided many a flower
To deck her sister's nuptial bower,
Bingham, with gentle heart and aspect mild:
The charm prevails—I hear, I hear
Strains nearer yet, and yet more near.
Still, ye nymphs and youths, advance,
Sprinkle still the balmy shower,
Mingle still the mazy dance.

Two names of unresisted power,

Behold, in radiant characters I write :
O rise! O leave thy secret shrine,

For they, who all thy nymphal train outshine, Duncannon', heavenly Muse, and Devonshire invite.

2 Lady Henrietta Spencer, second daughter of John Earl Spenser, and wife of Lord Viscount Duncannon, eldest son of the Earl of Besborough.