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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 follics scribbled o'er and o'er, One folly bringing hundreds more. Some have indeed been writ so neat, In characters so fair, so sweet, That those who judge not too severely Have said they loved such follies dearly! Yet still, O book! the allusion stands; For these were penn'd by female hands; The rest,-alas! I own the 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 stain'd with blots of care; And sometimes hours of peace, I own, Upon some fairer leaves have shown, White as the snowings of that Heaven By which those hours of peace were given.

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On! if your tears are given to care, If real woe disturbs your peace, Come to my bosom, weeping fair!

And I will bid your weeping cease.

But if with Fancy's vision'd fears,

With dreams of woe your bosom thrill, You look so lovely in your tears,

That I must bid you drop them still!

SONG.

HAVE you not seen the timid tear

Steal trembling from mine eye? Have you not mark'd the flush of fear, Or caught the murmur'd sigh? And can you think my love is chill, Nor fix'd on you alone?

And can you rend, by doubting still,
A heart so much your own?

To you my soul's affections move
Devoutly, warmly true;
My life has been a task of love,
One long, long thought of
you.
If all your tender faith is o'er,

If still my truth you'll try!
Alas! I know but one proof more,—
I'll bless your name, and die!

THE SHIELD.'

On! did you not hear a voice of death?
And did you not mark the paly form
Which rode on the silver mist of the heath,
And sung a ghostly dirge in the storm?

Was it a wailing bird of the gloom,

Which shrieks on the house of woe all night?

Or a shivering fiend that flew to a tomb,

To howl and to feed till the glance of light?

This poem is perfectly in the taste of the present day - his nam plebecula gaudet.»-E.

TO MRS

YES, Heaven can witness how I strove
To love thee with a spirit's love;
To make thy purer wish my own,
And mingle with thy mind alone.
Oh! I appeal to those pure dreams
In which my soul has hung on thee,
And I've forgot thy witching form,
And I've forgot the liquid beamis
That eye diffuses, thrilling warm-
Yes, yes, forgot each sensual charm,
Each madd ning spell of luxury,
That could saduce
soul's desires,
And bid it throb with guiltier fires.--
Such was my love, and many a time,
When sleep has given thee to my breast,
And thou hast seem'd to share the crime
Which made thy lover wildly blest;
E'en then, in all that rich delusion,
When, by voluptuous visions fired,
My soul, in rapture's warm confusion,
Blas on a
phantom's lip expired!

my

E'en then some purer thoughts would steal

Amid my senses' warm excess;

And at the moment-oh! e'en then
I've started from thy melting press,
And blush'd for all I've dared to feel,
Yet sigh'd to feel it all again!—
Such was my love, and still, O still
I might have calm'd the unholy thrill:
My heart might be a taintless shrine,
And thou its votive saint should be:
There, there I'd make thee all divine,
Myself divine in honouring thee.
But, oh! that night! that fatal night!
When both bewilder'd, both betray'd,
We sank beneath the flow of soul,
Which for a moment mock'd control;
And on the dangerous kiss delay'd,

And almost yielded to delight!

God! how I wish'd, in that wild hour,

That lips alone, thus stamp'd with heat,
Had for a moment all the power

To make our souls effusing meet!

That we might mingle by the breath

In all of love's delicious death;
And in a kiss at once be blest,
As, oh! we trembled at the rest!
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 balı
Which charm'd its little griefs 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 rack'd I fly,
With wearied sense and wakeful eve,
While my brain maddens, where, O where
Is that serene consoling prayer,
Which once has harbinger'd my rest,
When the still soothing voice of Heaven
Has seem'd to whisper in my breast,

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He should have stay'd, have linger'd here, To calm his Julia's every woe;

He should have chased each bitter tear, And not have caused those tears to flow.

We saw his youthful soul expand

In blooms of genius, nursed by taste; While Science, with a fostering hand, Upon his brow her chaplet placed.

We saw his gradual opening mind
Enrich'd by all the graces dear;
Enlighten'd, social, and refined,

In friendship firm, in love sincere.

Such was the youth we loved so well;

Such were the hopes that fate denied : We loved, but, ah! we could not 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!

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But you told me that passion a moment amused,
Was follow'd too oft by an age of repenting;
And check'd me so softly that, while you refused,
Forgive me, dear girl, if I thought 't was consenting!

And still I entreated, and still you denied,

Till I almost was made to believe you sincere; Though I found that, in bidding me leave you, you sigh'd,

And when you repulsed me, 't was done with a tear.

In vain did I whisper, « There's nobody nigh;

In vain with the tremors of passion implore;
Your excuse was a kiss, and a tear your reply-
I acknowledged them both, and I ask'd for no more.

Was I right?-oh! I cannot believe I was wrong.
Poor Fanny is gone back to Timmol again;
And may Providence guide her uninjured along,
Nor scatter her path with repentance and pain!

By Heaven! I would rather for ever forswear

The Elysium that dwells on a beautiful breast, Than alarm for a moment the peace that is there, Or banish the dove from so hallowed a nest!

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!

ELEGIAC STANZAS.

Sic javat 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 flow'rets 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 by twilight given!

Oh! let not sighs disturb the gloom,

None but the whispering winds of Heaven!

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, Oh! fly, like breezes, to the goal,

And let my love, my more than soul, Come panting to this fever'd breast; And while in every glance I drink

The rich o'erflowings of her mind, Oh! let her all impassion'd sink,

In sweet abandonment resign'd, Blushing for all our struggles past, And murmuring, «I am thine at last!.

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MYSELF, dear Julia! and the Sun,
Have now two years of rambling run;
And he before his wheels has driven
The grand menagerie of heaven,
While I have met on earth, I swear,
As many brutes as he has there.
The only difference I can see
Betwixt the flaming god and me,
Is, that his ways are periodic,

And mine, I fear, are simply oddic.
But, dearest girl! 't is now a lapse
Of two short years, or less, perhaps,
Since you to me, and I to you,
Vow'd to be ever fondly true;-
Ah, Julia! those were pleasant times!
You loved me for my amorous rhymes;
And I loved you, because I thought
'T was so delicious to be taught
By such a charming guide as you,
With eyes of fire and lips of dew,
All I had often fancied o'er,
But never, never felt before:

The day flew by, and night was short
For half our blisses, half our sport!

I know not how we changed, or why,
Or if the first was you or I:
Yet so 't is now, we meet each other,
And I'm no more than Julia's brother;
While she's so like my prudent sister,

There's few would think how close I ve kiss'd her.

But, Julia, let those matters pass!
If you will brim a sparkling glass
To vanish'd hours of true delight,
Come to me after dusk to-night.

I'll have no other guest to meet you,
But here alone I'll tête à tête you,
Over a little Attic feast,

As full of cordial soul at least

As those where Delia met Tibullus, Or Lesbia wanton'd with Catullus. '

I'll sing you many a roguish sonnet About it, at it and upon it; And songs address'd, as if I loved, To all the girls with whom I've roved.

Cœnam, non sine candida puella.

CAT. Carm. xiii.

Come, pr'ythee come, you'll find me here,
Like Horace, waiting for his dear. '
There shall not be to-night, on earth,
Two souls more elegant in mirth;
And, though our hey-day passion's fled,
The spirit of the love that's dead
Shall hover wanton o'er our head;
Like souls that round the grave will fly,
In which their late possessors lie:
And who, my pretty Julia, knows,
But when our warm remembrance glows,
The ghost of Love may act anew,
What Love when living used to do!

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