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And make thee smile at all the magic tales
THE STEERSMAN'S SONG.
Written aboard the Boston Frigate.
And under courses snug we fly;
And royals proudly sweep the sky;
I stand, and as my watchful eye
Port, my boy! port.
Right from the point we wish to steer ;
And strive in vain the port to near ;
My bliss with one that's far away,
Thus, my boy! thus.
All hands are up the yards to square,
Our stately ship through waves and air.
Some breeze of fortune thus may spring,
Steady, boy! so.
IMITATED FROM MARTIAL.
I COULD resign that eye of blue,
Howe'er it burn, howe'er it thrill me;
To lose it, Chloe, scarce would kill me.
That snowy neck I ne'er should miss,
However warm I've twined about it;
I think my soul could live without it.
That sooth, my love, I know not whether
To-do without you altogether!
TO THE FIRE-FLY.*
Were burning with the blush of spring,
Nor thought upon thy gleaming wing.
And sunny lights no longer play,
For sparkling o'er the dreary way.
When life and love shall lose their bloom,
To light, if not to warm, the gloom!
For many an hour on Beauty's shrine,
To banquet on its breath divine.
The fragrant charm the vase concealed ;
If thou hadst ne'er that charm revealed !
Would know the spell that lurks within ;
But Beauty murmured 'twas a sin !
That neither Heaven nor earth forbad it;
And looked as if she wished he had it !
* The lively and varying illumination with which these fire-flies light up the woods at night gives quite an idea of enchantment. - See L'Histoire des An tilles, art. 2, chap. 4, liv, 1.
He stole the key when Virtue slept
(Even she can sleep, if Love but ask it) And Beauty sighed, and Beauty wept,
While silly Love unlocked the casket. O dulcet air that vanished then!
Can Beauty's sigh recall thee ever? Can Love himself inhale again
A breath so precious ? never, never! Go, maiden, weep—the tears of woe
By Beauty to repentance given, Though bitterly on earth they flow,
Shall turn to fragrant balm in heaven!
THE WREATH AND THE CHAIN, I BRING thee, love, a golden chain,
I bring thee, too, a flowery wreath ;
The flowerets long shall sweetly breathe!
Stolen from Minerva's yellow hair,
The sober beam of evening there. The Wreath's of brightest myrtle wove,
With brilliant tears of bliss among it,
To heal his lip when bees have stung it!
Which answers when the tongue is loth.
And hold'st 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 fowerets 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 Wreaih is slightly braided, Let but the gold the flowerets touch,
And all their glow, their tints, are faded !
Sweet Fanny, what would Rapture do,
When all her blooms had lost their grace? Might she not steal a rose or two
From other Wreaths, to fill their place?
The timid girl now hung her head,
And, as she turned an upward glance, I saw a doubt its twilight spread
Along her brow's divine expanse. Just then, the garland's dearest rose
Gave one of its seducing sighsOh! 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!”
AND hast thou marked the pensive shade
That many a time obscures my brow, 'Midst all the blisses, darling maid,
Which thou canst give, and only thou? Oh 'tis not that I then forget
The endearing charms that round me twine There never throbbed a bosom yet
Could feel their witchery like mine! When bashful on my bosom hid,
And blushing to have felt so blest,
Again to close it on my breast !
Thine own to give, and mine to feel;
The sigh to rise, the tear to steal. For I have thought of former hours,
When he who first thy soul possessed, 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 ; For him that snowy lid hath hung
In ecstacy, as purely felt !
For him-yet why the past recall
To wither blooms of present bliss ?
clasp thee all,
I would be first, be sole to thee,
The hour that gave thy heart to me.
Love should have kept that leaf alone
That thou wert, soul and all, my own!
TO LORD VISCOUNT FORBES.
From the City of Washington.
Isocrates, Epist. iv.
But, tracing as we do, through age and clime,
Oh! nothing bat that soul which God has given