Oh! for the boat the angel gave
To him who, in his heavenward flight,
Sailed, o'er the sun's ethereal wave,
To planet-isles of odorous light!
Sweet Venus, what a clime he found
Within thy orb's ambrosial round!
There spring the breezes, rich and warm,
That pant around thy twilight car;
There angels dwell, so pure of form
That each appears a living star!

These are the sprites, O radiant queen!
Thou send'st so often to the bed
Of her I love, with spell unseen,

Thy planet's brightening balm to shed;
To make the eye's enchantment clearer,
To give the cheek one rosebud more,
And bid that flushing lip be dearer

Which had been oh! too dear before!
But, whither means the muse to roam?
'Tis time to call the wanderer home.
Who could have ever thought to search her
Up in the clouds with Father Kircher?
So, health and love to all your mansion!
Long may the bowl that pleasures bloom in,
The flow of heart, the soul's expansion,
Mirth and song your board illumine!
Fare you well-remember too,

When cups are flowing to the brim,
That here is one who drinks to you,
And oh !-as warmly drink to him.

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 bliss the bond itself hath formed.

But then, that eye, that burning eye!

Oh! it doth ask, with magic power,

If Heaven can ever bless the tie

Where love inwreathes 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,

Oh! quite as much, as thou dost mine!

Yet stay, dear love-one effort yet-
A moment turn those eyes away,
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
O 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! thou hast not my virgin vow;
Though few the years I yet have told,
Canst thou believe I live till now

With Loveless heart or scuses cold?

No-many a throb of bliss and pain
For many a maid my soul hath proved;
With some I wantoned wild and vain,
While some I truly, dearly 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 languid heart

Which long hath lost its early spring;
Think of the pure, bright soul thou art.
And-keep the ring, oh! keep the ring,

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.

While thus to mine thy bosom lies,

While thus our breaths commingling grow,

"Twere more than woman to be wise,

"I were more than man to wish thee so!

Did we not love so true, so dear,
This lapse could never be forgiven;
But hearts so fond and lips so near-
Give me the ring, and now-O heaven!

ΤΟ

ON SEEING HER WITH A WHITE VEIL AND A RICH GIRDLE

Μαργαριται δηλουσι δακρυων ῥοον.

Ap. Nicephor. in Oneirocritice.

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 lucid pearls around it

Are tears that fell from Virtue there,
The hour that Love unbound it.

THE RESEMBLANCE.

- vo cercand' io

Donna, quant' e possibile, in altrui
La desiata vostra forma vera.

Petrarc, Sonett.

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 oh beneath the blessed sun

So fair there are but thou and she!

Whate'er may be her angel birth,

She was thy lovely, perfect twin,

And wore the only shape on earth,

That could have charmed my soul to sin!

And when, with all thy murmuring tone, They sued half-open to be kissed,

I could as soon resist thine own,

And them, Heaven knows, I ne'er resist. Then scorn me not, though false I be, 'Twas love that waked the dear excess; My heart had been more true to thee, Had mine eye prized thy beauty less!

ΤΟ

WHEN I loved you, I can't but allow
I had many an exquisite minute;
But the scorn that I feel for you now
Hath even more luxury in it!
Thus, whether we're on or we're off,
Some witchery seems to await you;
To love you is pleasant enough,

And oh! 'tis delicious to hate you!

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,
Sweeten the breeze, and mingling swim
On every bowl's voluptuous brim!

Give me the wreath that withers there;

It was but last delicious night

It hung upon her wavy hair,

And caught her eyes' reflected light! Oh! haste, and twine it round my brow; It breathes of Heliodora now!

The loving rosebud drops a tear
To see the nymph no longer here,
No longer, where she used to lie,
Close to my heart's devoted sigh!

LINES,

WRITTEN IN A STORM AT SEA.

THAT sky of clouds is not the sky
To light a lover to the pillow
Of her he loves-

The swell of yonder foaming billow
Resembles not the happy sigh

That rapture moves.

Yet do I feel more tranquil far
Amid the gloomy wilds of ocean,
In this dark hour,

Than when, in transport's young emotion,
I've stolen, beneath the evening star,
To Julia's bower.

Oh! there's a holy calm profound
In awe like this, that ne'er was given
To rapture's thrill;

'Tis as a solemn voice from heaven,
And the soul, listening to the sound,
Lies mute and still!

'Tis true, it talks of danger nigh,
Of slumbering with the dead to-morrow
In the cold deep,

Where pleasure's throb or tears of sorrow
No more shall wake the heart or eye,
But all must sleep!

Well!-there are some, thou stormy bed,
To whom thy sleep would be a treasure;
Oh! most to him

Whose lip hath drained life's cup of pleasure.
Not left one honey drop to shed

Round misery's brim.

Yes he can smile serene at death:

Kind Heaven! do Thou but chase the weeping
Of friends who love him;

Tell them that he lies calmly sleeping
Where sorrow's sting or envy's breath
No more shall move him.

ODES TO NEA.

WRITTEN AT BERMUDA.

Nea Tupavvel.-Eurip. Medea, v. 967.

NAY, tempt me not to love again.

There was a time when love was sweet;

Dear Nea! had I known thee then,

Our souls had not been slow to meet ! But oh! this weary heart hath run,

So many a time, the rounds of pain,
Not even for thee, thou lovely one!

Would I endure such pangs again.
If there be climes where never yet
The print of beauty's foot was set,
Where man may pass his loveless nights,
Unfevered by her false delights,
Thither my wounded soul would fly,
Where rosy cheek or radiant eye