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(No fairer deck'd the Bowers of old Romance) That Sleep enamour'd grew, normov'd from his

sweet trance !

My Sara came, with gentlest look divine;
Bright shone her eye, yet tender was its beam:
I felt the pressure of her lip to mine!
Whisp’ring we went, and Love was all our theme-
Love pure and spotless, as at first, I deem,
Hesprang from Heaven ! Such joys with Sleep did’bide,
That I the living Image of my dream
Fondly forgot. Too late I woke, and sigh'd-
“O! how shall I behold my Love at even-tide !"


CUPID, if storying Legends tell aright,
Once fram'd a rich elixir of delight.
A Chalice o'er love-kindled flames he fix'd,
And in it nectar and ambrosia mix'd.
With these the magic dews, which Evening brings,
Brush'd from the Idalian star by fairy wings:
Each tender pledge of sacred Faith he join’d,
Each gentler pleasure of th’ unspotted mind
Day-dreams, whose tints with sportive brightness glow,
And Hope, the blameless parasite of Woe.
The eyeless Chemist heard the process rise,
The steamy chalice bubbled up in sighs ;
Sweet sounds transpir'd, as when the enamour'd dove
Pours the soft murm'ring of responsive love.
The finish'd work might Envy vainly blame,
And “ Kisses” was the precious compound's name.
With half the God his Cyprian mother blest,
And breath'd on Sara's lovelier lips the rest.


While others wish thap rise and fair,

A maid of spotless jame, I'll breathe this more compendious prayer

May'st thou deserve thy name!
Thy Mother's name a potent spell,

That bids the Virtues bie
From mystic grove and living cell,

Confess’d to Fancy's eye;
Meek Quietness without offence;

Content in homespun kirtle ;
True Love; and True Love's Innocence,

White blossom of the myrtle !

Associates of thy name, sweet Child !

These Virtues may'st thou win ;
With face as eloquently mild

To say, they lodge within.
So, when her tale of days all flown,

Thy Mother shall be miss’d here;
When Heaven at length shall claim its own,

And angels snatch their sister ; Some hoary-headed friend, perchance, May gaze with stifled breath

; And oft, in momentary trance,

Forget the waste of death.
Ev'n thus a lovely rose I view'd

In summer-swelling pride;
Nor mark'd the bud, that green and rude,

Peep'd at the rose's side.
It chanc'd I pass’d again that way

In Autumn's latest hour,
And wond'ring saw the self-same spray

Rich with the self-same flower.


When he had better far have stretched his limbs
Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell,
By sun or moon-light, to the influxes
Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements
Surrendering his whole.spirit, of his song
And of his fame forgetful! so his fame
Should share in nature's immortality,
A venerable thing ! and so his song
Should make all nature lovelier, and itself
Be loved, like nature !—But 'twill not be so;
And youths and maidens most poetical,
Who lose the deep’ning twilights of the spring
In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still
Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs
O’er Philomela's pity-pleading strains.
My friend, and my friend's sister ! we have learnt
A different lore: we may not thus profane
Nature's sweet voices always full of love
And joyous ! 'Tis the merry Nightingale
That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates,
With fast thick warble, his delicious notes,
As he were fearful that an April night

ould be too short for him to utter forth
His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul
Of all its music! and I know a grove
Of large extent, hard by a castle huge,
Which the great lord inhabits not: and so
This grove is wild with tangling underwood,
And the trim walks are broken up, and grass,

grass and king-cups grow within the paths.
But never elsewhere in one place I knew
So many Nightingales : and far and near
In wood and thicket over the wide grove
They answer and provoke each other's songs
With skirmish and capricious passagings,

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