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I would, that from the pinions of thy Dove
But Love, who “ heard the silence of my thought,"
(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;
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.
TO AN INFANT.
Au cease thy tears and sobs, my little Life!
ON THE CHRISTENING OF A FRIEND'S
And fed with fontal manna ;
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!
That bids the Virtues hie
Confess'd to Fancy's eye;
Content in homespun kirtle ;
White blossom of the myrtle !
Associates of thy name, sweet Child !
These Virtues may'st thou win ;
To say, they lodge within.
Thy Mother shall be miss'd here;
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.
In summer-swelling pride;
Peep'd at the rose's side.
In Autumn's latest hour,
Rich with the self-same flower,
Ab fond deceit! the rude green bud
Alike in shape, place, name,
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