Where love chased each fast-fleeting year,

Loth to leave thee, I mourned,
For a last look I turn'd,

But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear.

Though my vows I can pour

To my Mary no more,

My Mary to Love once so dear,
In the shade of her bower

I remember the hour

She rewarded those vows with a Tear.

By another possest,
May she live ever blest!

Her name still my heart must revere:
With a sigh I resign

What I once thought was mine, And forgive her deceit with a Tear.

Ye friends of my heart,

Ere from you I depart,

This hope to my breast is most near: If again we shall meet

In this rural retreat,

May we meet, as we part, with a Tear.

When my soul wings her flight
To the regions of night,

And my corse shall recline on its bier,
As ye pass by the tomb

Where my ashes consume,

Oh! moisten their dust with a Tear.

May no marble bestow

The splendor of wo

Which the children of vanity rear:

No fiction of fame

Shall blazon my name;

All I ask-all I wish-is a Tear.

LINES

WRITTEN IN " LETTERS OF AN ITALIAN NUN AND

AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN. BY J. J. ROUSSEAU. FOUNDED ON FACTS."

"AWAY, away, your flattering arts
May now betray some simpler hearts;
And you will smile at their believing,
And they shall weep at your deceiving."

ANSWER ΤΟ THE FOREGOING, ADDRESSED

MISS

DEAR simple girl, those flattering arts,
From which thou'dst guard frail female hearts,
Exist but in imagination-

Mere phantoms of thine own creation;
For he who views that witching grace,
That perfect form, that lovely face,
With eyes admiring, oh! believe me,
He never wishes to deceive thee:
Once in thy polished mirror glance,
Thou'lt there descry that elegance
Which from our sex demands such praises,
But envy in the other raises :

Then he who tells thee of thy beauty,
Believe me, only does his duty:

Ah! fly not from the candid youth;
It is not flattery,-'tis truth.

July, 1804.

TO

"And my body shall sleep on its bier."-Private volume. Found only in the private volume.

THE CORNELIAN.†

No specious splendor of this stone Endears it to my memory ever; With lustre only once it shone,

And blushes modest as the giver.

Some, who can sneer at friendship's ties, Have for my weakness oft reproved me; Yet still the simple gift I prize,

For I am sure the giver loved me.

He offer'd it with downcast look,

As fearful that I might refuse it; I told him when the gift I took, My only fear should be to lose it.

This pledge attentively I view'd,

And sparkling as I held it near, Methought one drop the stone bedew'd, And ever since I've loved a tear.

Still, to adorn his humble youth,

Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield; But he who seeks the flowers of truth, Must quit the garden for the field.

'Tis not the plant uprear'd in sloth,
Which beauty shows and sheds perfume;
The flowers which yield the most of both
In Nature's wild luxuriance bloom.

• Only printed in the private volume.

To young Eddleston. This poem is only found in the private volume

Not one poor trembler only fear betrays,

Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet your praise ;
But all our dramatis persone wait

In fond suspense this crisis of our* fate.
No venal views our progress can retard,
Your generous plaudits are our sole reward;
For these, each Hero all his power displays,
Each timid Heroine shrinks before your gaze.
Surely the last will some protection find;
None to the softer sex can prove unkind:
Whilst Youth and Beauty form the female shield,
The sternest Censort to the fair must yield.
Yet, should our feeble efforts nought avail,
Should, after all, our best endeavors fail,
Still let some mercy in your bosoms live,
And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive.

TO WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THESE PIECES SENT

THE FOLLOWING REPLY. §

Он, factious viper! whose envenom'd tooth
Would mangle still the dead, perverting truth,
What though our "nation's foes" lament the fate,
With generous feelings, of the good and great,
Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name
Of him whose meed exists in endless fame?
When PITT expired in plenitude of power,
Though ill success obscured his dying hour,
Pity her dewy wings before him spread,
For noble spirits "war not with the dead:"
His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gave,
As all his errors slumber'd in the grave;
He sunk, an Atlas bending 'neath the weight
Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state:
When lo! a Hercules in Fox appear'd,
Who for a time the ruin'd fabric rear'd:
He, too, is fall'n who Britain's loss supplied,
With him our fast-reviving hopes have died;
Not one great people only raise his urn,
All Europe's far extended regions mourn.
"These feelings wide, let sense and truth unclue,
To give the palm where Justice points its due;"
Yet let not canker'd Calumny assail,

Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil.
Fox! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep,
Whose dear remains in honor'd marble sleep:
For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan,
While friends and foes alike his talents own;
Fox shall in Britain's future annals shine,
Nor e'en to PITT the patiot's palm resign;
Which Envy wearing Candor's sacred mask,
For PITT, and PITT alone, has dared to ask.

• Our. In the private volume, their.

↑ Censor. In the private volume, critic.

"In the Morning post."-Private volume.

"For insertion in the Morning Chronicle,' was here added in the

Brivate volume.

TO M. S. G.*

WHENE'ER I view those lips of thine,
Their hue invites my fervent kiss;
Yet I forego that bliss divine,
Alas! it were unhallowed bliss.

Whene'er I dream of that pure breast, How could I dwell upon its snows? Yet is the daring wish represt,

For that, would banish its repose.

A glance from thy soul-searching eye
Can raise with hope, depress with fear;
Yet I conceal my love, and why?

I would not force a painful tear.

I ne'er have told my love, yet thou Hast seen my ardent flame too well; And shall I plead my passion now,

To make thy bosom's heaven a hell?

No! for thou never canst be mine,
United by the priest's decree;
By any ties but those divine,

Mine, my beloved, thou ne'er shalt be.

Then let the secret fire consume,
Let it consume, thou shalt not know;
With joy I court a certain doom,
Rather than spread its guilty glow.

I will not ease my tortured heart,
By driving dove-eyed peace from thine,
Rather than such a sting impart,

Each thought presumptuous I resign.

Yes! yield those lips, for which I'd brave
More than I here shall dare to tell;
Thy innocence and mine to save,-
I bid thee now a last farewell.

Yes, yield that breast to seek despair,

And hope no more thy soft embrace, Which to obtain my soul would dare,

All, all reproach, but thy disgrace.

At least from guilt shalt thou be free, No matron shall thy shame reprove, Though cureless pangs may prey on me, No martyr shalt thou be to love.

TO CAROLINE.†

THINK'ST thou I saw thy beauteous eyes,
Suffused in tears implore to stay;
And heard unmoved thy plenteous sighs,
Which said far more than words can say?

Though keen the grief thy tears exprest,

When love and hope lay both o'erthrown; Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast Throbb'd with deep sorrow as thine own.

• Only printed in the private volume. ↑ Printed only in the private volume.

420

But when our cheeks with anguish glow'd, When thy sweet lips were join'd to mine, The tears that from my eyelids flow'd

Were lost in those which fell from thine.

Thou could'st not feel my burning cheek, Thy gushing tears had quench'd its flame, And as thy tongue essay'd to speak,

In sighs alone it breathed my name.

And yet, my girl, we weep in vain,

In vain our fate in sighs deplore; Remembrance only can remain,

But that will make us weep the more.

Again, thou best beloved, adieu !

Ah! if thou canst o'ercome regret, Nor let thy mind past joys review,Our only hope is to forget!

TO CAROLINE.*

WHEN I hear you express an affection so warm, Ne'er think, my beloved, that I do not believe; For your lip would the soul of suspicion disarm, And your eye beams a ray which can never deceive.

Yet still, this fond bosom regrets while adoring, That love, like the leaf, must fall into the sear, That age will come on, when remembrance, deploring,

Bit now tears and curses, alike unavailing,

Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight, Could they view us our sad separation bewailing, Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight

tion,

breeze,

When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining, Prove nature a prey to decay and disease.

tion,

In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear.