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Yet go—and could she still restore,

As some exchange for taking thee,
The tranquil look which first I wore,

When her eyes found me wild and free ;
Could she give back the careless flow,

The spirit which my fancy knew-
Vet ah ! 'tis vain-go, picture, go-

Smile at me once, and then-adieu !

FRAGMENT OF A MYTHOLOGICAL HYMN TO LOVE.

Blest infant of eternity !
Before the day-star learned to move,
In pomp of fire, along his grand career,

Glancing the beamy shafts of light
From his rich quiver to the farthest sphere,

Thou wert alone, O Love !
Nestling beneath the wings of ancient Night,
Whose horrors seemed to smile in shadowing thee !
No form of beauty soothed thine eye,

As through the dim expanse it wandered wide;
No kindred spirit caught thy sigh,

As o'er the watery waste it lingering died !
Unfelt the pulse, unknown the power,

That latent in his heart was sleeping ;
O Sympathy! that lonely hour

Saw Love himself thy absence weeping !
But look, what glory through the darkness beams!
Celestial airs along the water glide :
What spirit art thou, moving o'er the tide
So lovely? Art thou but the child

Of the young godhead's dreams,
That mock his hope with fancies strange and wild?

Or were his tears, as quick they fell,
Collected in so bright a form,
Till, kindled by the ardent spell

Of his desiring eyes,
And all impregnate with his sighs,
They spring to life in shape so fair and warm !

'Tis she !
Psyche, the first-born spirit of the air :

To thee, O Love ! she turns,

On thee her eye-beam burns :
Blest hour of nuptial ecstacy!

They meet-
The blooming god—the spirit fair-

Oh sweet ! oh heavenly sweet !

Now, Sympathy, the hour is thine ;
All nature feels the thrill divine,

The veil of Chaos is withdrawn,
And their first kiss is great Creation's dawn !

TO HIS SERENE HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF MONTPENSIER, ON HIS PORTRAIT OF THE LADY ADELAIDE FORBES.

Donington Park, 1802.
To catch the thought hy painting's spell,

Howe'er remote, howe'er refined,
And o'er the magic tablet tell

The silent story of the mind ;
O'er Nature's form to glance the eye,

And fix, by mimic light and shade,
Her morning tinges, ere they sly,

Her evening blushes, ere they fade;
These are the pencil's grandest theme,

Divinest of the powers divine,
That light the Muse's flowery dream,

And these, O prince, are richly thine!
Yet, yet, when Friendship sees thee trace,

In emanating soul expressed,
The sweet memorial of a face

On which her eye delights to rest;
While o'er the lovely look serene,

The smile of peace, the bloom of youth,
The cheek that blushes to be seen,

The eye that tells the bosom's truth;
While o'er each line, so brightly true,

Her soul with fond attention roves,
Blessing the hand whose various hue

Could imitate the form it loves;
She feels the value of thy art,

And owns it with a purer zeal,
A rapture nearer to her heart

Than critic taste can ever fcel !

THE PHILOSOPHER ARISTIPPUS
TO A LAMP WHICH WAS GIVEN HIM BY LAIS.
Dulcis conscia lectuli lucerna.

Martial, lib. xiv. epig. 39.
s On! 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! Oft has it known her cheek to burn

With recollections, fondly free, And seen her turn, impassioned turn,

To kiss the pillow, love! for thee,
And, in a murmur, wish thee there,
That kiss to feel, that thought to share !
“ Then love the Lamp—'twill often lead

Thy step through learning's sacred way;
And, lighted by its happy ray,
Whene'er those darling eyes shall read

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 neck reclined, the graceful arm

Across the brow of ivory flung; The heaving bosom, partly hid,

The severed lip's delicious sighs,
The fringe that from the snowy lid

Along 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 burning soul behind !
Or o'er thy humbler legend shine,

O 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 crystai of Castalia's wave.

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'Then, turning to a purer lore,
We'll cull the sages' heavenly 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

The passing world's precarious flight,
Where all that meets the morning glow

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 shall steal 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 guilt to lose?
Who that has culled a weeping rose
Will ask it why it breathes and glows,
Unmindsul of the blushing ray
In which it shines its soul away;
Unmindful of the scented sigh
On which it dies and loves to die?

Pleasure ! thou only good on earth !

Our little hour resigned to thee-
Oh! by my Lais' lip, 'tis worth,

The sage's immortality!
Then far be all the wisdom hence,

And all the lore, whose tame control
Would wither joy with chill delays !
Alas! the fertile fount of sense

At which the young, the panting soul
Drinks life and love, too soon decays !
Sweet Lamp! thou wert not formed to shed

Thy splendour 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,

Glide to the pillow of my love.

Calm be her sleep, the gentle dear !
Nor let her dream of bliss so near;
Till o'er her cheek she thrilling feel
My sighs of fire in murmurs steal,
And I shall lift the locks, that flow
Unbraided o'er her lids of snow,
And softly kiss those sealed eyes,
And wake her into sweet surprise !

Or, if she dream, oh ! let her dream

Of those delights we both have known And felt so truly that they seem

Formed to be felt by us alone ! And I shall mark her kindling cheek,

Shall see her bosom warmly move,
And hear her faintly, lowly speak

The murmured sounds so dear to love !
Oh! I shall gaze, till e'en the sigh
That wafts her very soul be nigh,
And when the nymph is all but blest,
Sink in her arms and share the rest !
Sweet Lais ! what an age of bliss

In that one moment waits for me!
O sages !—think on joy like this,

And where's your boast of apathy!

TO MRS. BL-H-D.

WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM.

Τουτο δε τι εστι το ποτον; πλανη, εφη.

Cebetis Tabula. 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.

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