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Why, let the stingless critic chide
With all that fume of vacant prido
Which mantles o'er the pedant fool,
Like vapor on a stagnant pool.
Oh! if the song, to feeling true,
Can please th' elect, the sacred few,
Whose souls, by Taste and Natura taug!it,
Thrill with the genuine pulse of thought-
If some fond feeling maid like thee,
The warm-eyed child of Sympathy,
Shall say, while o'er my simple theme
She languishes in Passion's dream,
" He was, indeed, a tender soul
• No critic law, no chill control,
“ Should ever freeze, by timid art,
“ The flowings of so fond a heart !"
Yes, soul of Nature ! soul of Love !
That, hov’ring like a snow-wing'd dove,
Breathed o'er my cradle warblings wild,
And hail'd me Passion's warmest child,
Grant me the tear from Beauty's eye,
From Feeling's breast the votive sigh ;
Oh! let my song, my mem’ry, find
A shrine within the tender mind;
And I will smile when critics chide,
And I will scoru the fume of pride
Which mantles o'er the pedant fool,
Like vapor round some stagnant pool !

My fates had destined mo to rovo
A long, long pilgrimage of love;
And many an altar on my way
Has lured my pious steps to stay ;
For, if the saint was young and fair,
I turn'd and sung my vespere there
This, from a youthful pilgrim's fire,
Is what your pretty saints require :
To pass, nor tell a single bead,
With them would be profane indeed!
But, trust me, all this young devotion
Was but to keep my zeal in motion ;
And, ev'ry humbler altar past,
I now have reach'd THE SHRINE at last!



When, casting many a look behind,

I leave the friends I cherish herePerchance some other friends to find,

But surely finding none so dear

Haply the little simple page,

Which votive thus I've traced for thee, May now and then a look engage,

And steal one moment's thought for me

Mock me no more with Love's beguiling dream,

A dream, I find, illusory as sweet:
One smile of friendship, nay, of cold esteem,

Far dearer were than passion's bland deceit!

But, oh! in pity let not those

Whose hearts are not of gentle mould, Let not the eye that seldom flows With feeling's tear, my song


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But must we, must we part indeed?

Is all our dream of rapture over? And does not Julia's bosom bleed

To leave so dear, so fond a lover?

Does she too mourn ?—Perhaps she may ;

Perhaps she mourns our bliss so fleeting. But why is Julia's eye so gay,

If Julia's heart like mine is beating?

I oft have loved that sunny glow

Of gladness in her blue eye glearningBut can the bosom bleed with wo,

While joy is in the glances beaming ?

In vain we fondly strive to trace
The soul's reflection in the face;
In vain we dwell on lines and crosses,
Crooked mouth, or short proboscis;
Boobies have look'd as wise and bright
As Plato or the Stagirite:

many a sage and learned skull
Has peep'd through windows dark and dull
Since then, though art do all it can,
We ne'er can reach the inward man,
Nor (howsoe'er “ learn’d Thebans” doubt)
The inward woman, from without,
Methinks 'twere well if Nature could
(And Nature could, if Nature would)
Some pithy, short description write,
On tablets large, in black and white,
Which she might hang about our throttles,
Like labels upon physic-bottles ;
And where all men might read—but stay-
As dialectic sages say,
The argument most apt and ample
For common use is the example.

No, no S-Yet, love, I will not chide;

Although your heart were fond of roving, Nor that, nor all the world beside

Could keep your faithful boy from loving.

You'll soon be distant from his eye,

And, with you, all that's worth possessing. Oh! then it will be sweet to die,

When life has lost its only blessing !

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The learned Prue took a pert young thing,

To divert her virgin Muse with, And pluck sometimes a quill from his wing,

To indite her billet-doux with.
Poor Cloe would give for a well-fledged pair

Her only eye, if you'd ask it;
And Tabitha begg'd, old toothless fair,
For the youngest Love in the basket.

Come buy my Loves, &c. &c.

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The wreath you wove, the wreath you wove

Is fair—but oh, how fair,
If Pity's hand had stol'n from Love

One leaf to mingle there!

If every rose with gold were tied,

Did gems for dewdrops fall, One faded leaf where Love had sigh'd Were sweetly worth them all.

But one was left, when Susan came,

One worth them all together;
At sight of her dear looks of shame,

He smiled, and pruned his feather.
She wish'd the boy—'twas more than whim-

Her looks, her sighs betray'd it; But kisses were not enough for him, I ask'd a heart, and she paid it!

Good-by, my Loves,

Good-by, my Loves, 'Twould make you smile to've seen us

First trade for this

Sweet child of bliss,
And then nurse the boy between us.

The wreath you wove, the wreath you wovo

Our emblem well may be ;
Its bloom is yours, but hopeless Lovo
Must keep its tears for me.



I DREAMT that, in the Paphian groves,

My nest by moonlight laying,
I caught a flight of wanton Loves,

Among the rose-beds playing.
Some just had left their silv'ry shell,

While some were full in feather;
So pretty a lot of Loves to sell,
Were never yet strung together.

Come buy my Loves,

Come buy my Loves,
Ye dames and rose-lipp'd misses !-

They're new and bright,

The cost is light,
For the coin of this isle is kisses.

The world had just begun to steal

Each tope that led mo lightly on; I felt not, as I used to feel,

And life grew dark and love was gone.

No eye to mingle sorrow's tear,

No lip to mingle pleasure's breath, No circling arms to draw mo near

'Twas gloomy, and I wish'd for death

First Cloris came, with looks sedato,

Their coin on her lips was ready; “I buy," quo h she,“


Love by weight, * Full

grown, if you please, and steady." “Let mine be light,” said Fanny,“ pray

"Such lasting toys undo one ; "A light little Love that will last to-day, “To-morrow I'll sport a new one."

Come bay my Loves,
Come buy my Loves,

But when I saw that gentle eye,

Oh! something seem'd to tell me then, That I was yet too young to die,

And hope and bliss might bloom again.

With every gentle smile that cross'd

Your kindling cheek, you lighted home Some feeling, which my heart had lost,

And peace, which far had learn'd to roam.

There's some will keep,

Some light and cheap, At from ten to twenty kisses.

'Twas then indeed so sweet to live,

Hope look'd so new and Love so kind, That, though I mourn, I yet forgive

The ruin they have left behind.

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