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I would, that from the pinions of thy Dove
One quill withouten pain ypluck'd might be.
For O! I wish my Sara's frowns to flee,
And fain to her some soothing song would write,
Lest sbe resent my rude discourtesy,
Who vow'd to meet her ere the morning light,
But broke my plighted word-ah! false and recreant

Last night as I my weary head did pillow
With thoughts of my dissevered Fair engross'd.
Chill Fancy droop'd wreathing herself with willow,
As tho' my breast entomb'd a pining ghost.
From some blest couch, young Rapture's bridal boast
Rejected Slumber! hither wing thy way ;
But leave me with the matin hour, at most!
As night-clos'd flow'ret to the orient ray,
My sad heart will expand, when I the Maid survey."

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But Love, who “ heard the silence of my thought,"
Contriv'd a too successful wile, I ween :
And whisper'd to himself, with malice fraught,
Too long our Slave the Damsel's smiles hath seen ;
To-morrow shall he ken her alter'd mien !"
He spake, and ambush'd lay, till on my bed
The Morning shot her dewy glances keen,
When as I'gan uplift my drowsy head-
* Now, Bard ! I'll work thee woe!” the laughing

Elfin said.
Sleep, softly-breathing God! his downy wing
Was flutt'ring now, as quickly to depart;
When twang'd an arrow from Love's mystic string,
With pathless wound it pierc'd him to the heart.
Was there some Magic in the Elfin's dart ?
Or did he strike my couch with wizard lance ?
For strait so fair a Ferm did upwards start

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(No fairer deck'd the Bowers of old Romance) That Sleep enamour'd grew, nor mord 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

Fondly forgot. Too late I woke, and sigh'd
O! how shall I behold my Love at even-tide !"

THE COMPOSITION OF A KISS. 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 mindDay-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.


Au cease thy tears and sobs, my little Life!
I did but snatch away the unclasp'd knife :
Some safer toy will soon arrest thine eye
And to quick laughter change this peevish cry!
Poor stumbler on the rocky coast of Woe,
Tutor’d by Pain each source of pain to know !
Alike the foodful fruit and scorching fire,
Or rouse thy screams or wake thy young desire :
Yet art thou wise, for 'mid thy brief alarms
Thou closely clingest to thy Mother's arms,
Nestling thy little face in that fond breast
Whose anxious heavings lull thee to thy rest !
Man's breathing miniature ! thou mak’st me sigh
A Babe art thou—and such a thing am I !
To anger rapid, and as soon appeas’d,
For trifles mourning and by trifles pleas’d,
Break friendship’s mirror with a fretful blow
Yet snatch what coals of fire on Pleasure's altar glow !
O thou that rearest with celestial aim
The future Seraph in my mortal frame,
Thrice holy Faith! whatever thorns I meet
As on I totter with unpractis'd feet,
Still let me stretch my arms and cling to thee,
Meek Nurse of souls thro’ their long infancy !


This day among the faithful placed

And fed with fontal manna ;
O with maternal title grac'd

Dear Anna's dearest Anna!

While others wish the rise and fair,

A maid of spotsess jaue, I'll breathe this more compendious prayer

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

That bids the Virtues hie
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 tracce,

Forget the waste of death.
Ey’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,

Ab fond deceit! the rude green bud

Alike in shape, place, name,
Had bloom'd, where bloom'd its parent stud,

Another and the same!


WRITTEN IN APRIL, 1798. No cloud, no relique of the sunken day Distinguishes the west, no long thin slip Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues. Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge! You see the glimmer of the stream beneath, But hear no murmuring; it flows silently O'er its soft bed of verdure, All is still, A balmy night! and though the stars be din, Yet let us think upon the vernal showers That gladden the green earth, and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. And hark! the nightingale begins its song, “ Most musical, most melancholy” bird ! A melancholy bird ? O idle thought ! In nature there is nothing melancholy. — But some night-wand'ring man, whose heart was

pierced With the remembrance of a grievous wrong, Or slow distemper, or neglected love, (And so, poor wretch ! filled all things with himself, And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale Of his own sorrows) he and such as he First named these notes a melancholy strain : And many a poet echoes the conceit; Poet, who hath been building up the rhyme

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