"Hail Valentine! at thy approach benign,
Profuse of gems, the bosom of the earth
Her fragrant stores unfolds: the fields rejoice,
And in the infancy of plenty smile :

The vallies laugh and sing: the woods alive
Sprout into floating verdure, to embower
Those happy lovers who record thy praise.
Hail Valentine! at thy approach benign,
Inhaling genial raptures from the sun,
The plumy nations swell the song of joy,
Thy soaring choristers! The lark, the thrush,
And all the' aërial people, from the wren
And linnet to the eagle, feel the stings
Of amorous delight, and sing thy praise.
Hail Valentine! at thy approach benign,
Quick o'er the softening soul the gentle gales
Of Spring, awaking bliss, instinctive move
The ardent youth to breathe the sighs of faith
Into the virgin's heart; who, sick of love,
With equal fires and purity of truth

Consenting, blushes while she chaunts thy praise."

So sung IANTHE! to my heart I prest

Her spotless sweetness: when, (with wonder hear!)
Though she shone smiling by, the torpid powers
Of heaviness weigh'd down my beamless eyes,
And press'd them into night. The dews of death
Hung clammy on my forehead, like the damps
Of midnight sepulchres; which silent op❜d,
By weeping widow or by friendship's hand,
Yawn hideous on the moon, and blast the stars
With pestilential reck. My head is torn
With pangs insuff'rable; pulsive starts

And pungent aches now grinding through the brain,
To madness hurrying the tormented sense,

And hate of being.-Poor IANTHE wept

In bitterness, and took me by the hand
Compassionately kind: Alas,' she cried,

'What sudden change is this ?'-Again she wept! Say, can IANTHE prove the source of pain

To Thamalin? forbid it, gracious Heaven!'
No, beauteous Innocence! as soon the rose
Shall poison with its balm; as soon the dove
Become a white dissembler; and the stream
With lulling murmurs, creeping through the grove,
Offend the shepherd's slumber' - - - - Scarce my tongue
These faltering accents stammer'd, down I sink,
And a lethargic stupor steeps my sense

In dull oblivion.

More than six years after this affecting event, Ianthe is still described as the associate of his walks, and the inspirer of his poetical feelings. Circumstances doubtless occurred inimical to the intercourse that had so long subsisted between these lovers; but in what those circumstances consisted, or at what period the anticipations of happiness were exchanged for the regrets of disappointment, is wholly uncertain. Bacchus, as we learn from the poet's lines "beneath a Vine, under the picture of Horace," though generally the auxiliary of Venus, was at length implored to counteract the influence to which he once contributed.

"With social joys we raise the hour,
But banish Cupid from the bow'r :
Seven lustres past, ah! why should 1,
And why should Horace pine and sigh?
No more he beckons Pyrrha to the grot,
His Lydia, my IANTHE, both forgot."

From the existing effusions of his amatory muse, it may be regretted that Thompson has not been solicitous to preserve the three books of love-elegies, entitled "Stella," which he published in 1736. His verse is polished and mellifluous, his sentiments are delicate and tender, his imagery is often beautifully luxuriant. His greatest defect is the want of originality.

THE LOVERS' NIGHT.

LULL'D in the arms of him she lov'd,
IANTHE sigh'd the kindest things:
Her fond surrender he approv'd
With smiles; and thus, enamour'd, sings.

« How sweet are lovers' vows by night,
Lap'd in a honey-suckle grove!
When Venus sheds her gentle light,
And sooths the yielding soul to love.

Soft as the silent-footed dews
That steal upon the star-light hours;
Warm as a love-sick poet's muse;
And fragrant as the breath of flow'rs.

To hear our vows the moon grows pale,
And pants Endymion's warmth to prove ;
While emulous, the Nightingale
Thick-warbling trills her lay of love.

The silver-sounding shining spheres
That animate the glowing skies,
Nor charm so much, as thou, my ears,
Nor bless so much, as thou, my eyes.

Thus let me clasp thee to my heart,
Thus sink in softness on thy breast!
No cares shall haunt us, danger part,
For ever loving, ever blest.

Censorious envy dares not blame
The passion which thy truth inspires:
Ye stars, bear witness that my flame
Is chaste as your eternal fires !”

Love saw them (hid among the boughs),
And heard him sing their mutual bliss!

་

Enjoy,' cried he, 'IANTHE'S Vows;

But, oh! I envy thee her kiss.'

TO IANTHE, A HYMN TO MAY.

WHERE lives the man (if such a man there be)
In idle wilderness or desert drear,

To beauty's sacred power an enemy?

Let foul fiends harrow him; I'll drop no tear.
I deem that carl by beauty's power unmov'd
Hated of Heaven, of none but hell approv'd;
O may he never love, O never be belov'd!

Hard is his heart, unmelted by thee, May!
Unconscious of love's nectar-tickling sting,
And, unrelenting, cold to beauty's ray;
Beauty the mother and the child of spring!
Beauty and wit declare the sexes even ;
Beauty to woman, wit to man is given ;
Neither the slime of earth, but each the fire of Heaven.

Alliance sweet! let beauty wit approve,
As flowers to sunshine ope the ready breast;
Wit beauty loves, and nothing else can love;
The best alone is grateful to the best:
Perfection has no other parallel !

Can light with darkness, doves with ravens dwell?
As soon,perdie,shall Heaven communion hold with hell.

Come then, IANTHE! milder than the Spring,
And grateful as the rosy month of May,
O come; the birds the hymn of Nature sing
Inchanting wild, from every bush and spray:
Swell the green-gems and teem along the vine,
A fragrant promise of the future wine;
The spirits to exalt, the genius to refine!

Let us our steps direct where father Thames
In silver windings draws his humid train,
And pours, where'er he rolls his naval streams,
Pomp on the city, plenty o'er the plain.

Or by the banks of Isis shall we stray,
(Ah, why so long from Isis banks away?)
Where thousand damsels dance, and thousand shep-
herds play,

Or choose you rather Theron's calm retreat,
Embosom'd, Surrey, in thy verdant vale,
At once the muses' and the graces' seat!
There gently listen to my faithful tale ;
Along the dew-bright parterres let us rove ;
Or taste the odours of the mazy-grove :
Hark! how the turtles coo;-I languish, too, with love!

Amid the pleasaunce of Arcadian scenes,
Love steals his silent arrows on my breast;
Nor falls of water, nor enamell'd greens,
Can soothe my anguish, or invite to rest.
You, dear IANTHE! you alone impart

Balm to my wounds, and cordial to my smart :
The apple of my eye, the life-blood of my heart,

With line of silk, with hook of barbed steel,
Beneath this oaken umbrage let us lay,
And from the water's crystal bosom steal
Upon the grassy bank the finny prey ;