COULD Love for ever

Run like a river,

And Time's endeavour

Be tried in vain

No other pleasure

With this could measure;

And like a treasure

We'd hug the chain.

But since our sighing

Ends not in dying,

And, form'd for flying,

Love plumes his wing;

Then for this reason

Let's love a season;

But let that season be only Spring.

When lovers parted

Feel broken-hearted,

And, all hopes thwarted,
Expect to die ;

A few years older,

Ah! how much colder
They might behold her

For whom they sigh!
When link'd together,
In every weather,

They pluck Love's feather

From out his wing

He'll stay for ever,

But sadly shiver

Without his plumage, when past the Spring.

R

MISSOLONGHI, Jan. 22, 1824.

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved,

Since others it hath ceased to move:

Yet, though I cannot be beloved,
Still let me love!

My days are in the yellow leaf;

The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone!

The fire that on my bosom preys
Is lone as some volcanic isle;
No torch is kindled at its blaze--
A funeral pile.

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain
And power of love, I cannot share,
But wear the chain.

But 'tis not thus-and 'tis not here

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now,
Where glory decks the hero's bier,
Or binds his brow.

The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece, around me see!
The Spartan, borne upon his shield,
Was not more free.

Awake! (not Greece-she is awake!)
Awake, my spirit! Think through whom
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,
And then strike home!

Tread those reviving passions down,
Unworthy manhood !-unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of beauty be.

If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live?
The land of honourable death

Is here:-up to the field, and give
Away thy breath!

Seek out-less often sought than foundA soldier's grave, for thee the best; Then look around, and choose thy ground, And take thy rest.

THE END

BRADBURY, EVANS, AND CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.