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Is it not sweet, beloved youth,

To rove through Erudition's bowers,
And cull the golden fruits of truth,

And gather Fancy's brilliant flowers ?
And is it not more sweet than this,

To feel thy parents' hearts approving,
And pay them back in sums of bliss

The dear, the endless debt of loving ?
It must be so to thee, my youth ;

With this idea toil is lighter ;
This sweetens all the fruits of truth,

And makes the flowers of Fancy brighter!
The little gift we send thee, boy,

May sometimes teach thy soul to ponder,
If indolence or syren joy

Should ever tempt that soul to wander;
'Twill tell thee that the winged day

Can ne'er be chain'd by man's endeavour;
That life and time shall fade away,

While heaven and virtue bloom for ever!



WHEN, casting many a look behind,

I leave the friends I cherish here-
Perchance some other friends to find,

But surely finding none so dear-
Haply the little simple page,

Which votive thus I've traced for thee,
May now and then a look engage,

And steal a moment's thought for me.
But, oh! in pity let not those

Whose hearts are not of gentle mould,
Let not the eye, that seldom flows

With feeling tear, my song behold.
For, trust me, they who never melt

With pity, never melt with love;
And they will frown at all I've felt,

And all my loying lays reprove.

But if, perhaps, some gentler mind,

Which rather loves to praise thau blame,
Should in my page an interest find,

And linger kindly on my name ;
Tell him,-or, oh ! if gentler still,

By female lips my name be blest :
Ah! where do all affections thrill

So sweetly as in woman's breast ?-
Tell her, that he whose loving themes

Her eye indulgent wanders o'er,
Could sometimes wake from idle dreams,

And bolder flights of fancy soar;
That glory oft would claim the lay,

And friendship oft his numbers move;
But whisper then, that, 'sooth to say,

His sweetest song was given to LOVE !





Ego pars.-Virg.
In wedlock a species of lottery lies,

Where in blanks and in prizes we deal ;
But how comes it that you, such a capital prize,

Should so long have remained in the wheel ?
If ever, by Fortune's indulgent decree,

To me such a ticket should roll,
A sixteenth, Heaven knows ! were sufficient for me;

For what could I do with the whole ?



Wuy, let the stingless critic chide
With all that sume of vacant pride
Which mantles o'er the pedant fool,
Like vapour on a stagnant pool !
Oh ! if the song, to feeling true,
Can please the elect, the sacred few,
Whose souls, by Taste and Nature taught,
Thrill with the genuine pulse of thought-

If some fond feeling maid like thee,
The warm-eyed child of Sympathy,
Shall say, while o'er my simple theme
She languishes in Passion's dream,
. He was, indeed, a tender soul-
No critic law, no chill control,
Should ever freeze, by timid art,
The flowings of so fond a heart !
Yes ! soul of Nature ! soul of Love !
That, hovering like a snow-winged dove,
Breathed o'er my cradle warblings wild,
And hailed me Passion's warmest child !
Grant me the tear from Beauty's eye,
From Feeling's breast the votive sigh;
Oh ! let my song, my memory, find
A shrine within the tender mind;
And I will scorn the critic's chide,
And I will scorn the fume of pride
Which mantles o'er the pedant fool,
Like vapour on a stagnant pool !


Though Fate, my girl, may bid us part,

Our souls it cannot, shall not, sever; The heart will seek its kindred heart,

And cling to it as close as ever. But must we, must we part indeed ?

Is all our dream of rapture over ?
And does not Julia's bosom Lleed

To leave so dear, so fond a lover?
Does she too mourn ?-Perhaps she may;

Perhaps she weeps our blisses fleeting :
But why is Julia's eye so gay,

If Julia's heart like mine is beating? I oft have loved the brilliant glow

Of rapture in her blue eye streamingBut can the bosom bleed with woe,

While joy is in the glances beaming ? No, no !-Yet, love, I will not chide,

Although your heart were fond of roving : Nor that, nor all the world beside,

Could keep your faithful boy from loving. You'll soon be distant from his eye,

And, with you, all that's worth possessing. Oh! then it will be sweet to die,

When life has lost its only blessing !


And do I then wonder that Julia deceives me,

When surely there's nothing in nature more common? She vows to be true, and while vowing she leaves me –

But could I expect any more from a woman? Oh, woman ! your heart is a pitiful treasure ;

And Mahomet's doctrine was not too severe, When he thought you were ly materials of pleasure,

And reason and thinking were out of your sphere. By your heart, when the fond sighing lover can win it,

He thinks that an age of anxiety's paid ;
But, oh! while he's blest, let him die on the minute

If he live but a day, he'll be surely betrayed,


SWEET seducer ! blandly smiling ;
Charming still, and still beguiling !
Oft I swore to love thee never,
Yet I love thee more than ever !

Why that little wanton blushing,
Glancing eye, and bosom flushing ?
Flushing warm, and wily glancing-
All is lovely, all entrancing !
Turn away those lips of blisses —
I am poisoned by thy kisses !
Yet, again, ah! turn them to me:
Ruin's sweet, when they undo me !
Oh! be less, be less enchanting ;
Let some little grace be wanting ;
Let my eyes, when I'm expiring,
Gaze awhile without admiring !


Grow to my lip, thou sacred kiss,

On which my soul's beloved swore
That there should come a time of bliss

When she would mock my hopes no more;
And fancy shall thy glow renew,

In sighs at morn, and dreams at night,
And none shall steal thy holy dew

Till thou'rt absolved by rapture's rite.

Sweet hours that are to make me blest,

Oh ! fly, like breezes, to the goal,

And let my love, my more than soul, Come panting to this fevered breast; And while in every glance I drink

The rich o'erflowings of her mind, Oh ! let her all impassioned sink,

In sweet abandonment resigned Blushing for all our struggles past, And murmuring, 'I am thine at last !'

How oft a cloud, with envious veil,

Obscures yon bashful light,
Which seems so modestly to steal

Along the waste of night!
'Tis thus the world's obtrusive wrongs

Obscure with malice keen
Some timid heart, which only longs

To live and die unseen!


Sic juvat perire.
WHEN wearied wretches sink to sleep,

How heavenly soft their slumbers lie !
How sweet is death to those who weep,

To those who weep and long to die? Saw you the soft and grassy bed,

Where flowerets deck the green carth's breast ? 'Tis there I wish to lay my head,

'Tis there I wish to sleep at rest ! Oh ! let not tears embalm my tomb,

None but the dews by twilight given ! Oh! let not sighs disturb the gloom,

None but the whispering winds of Heaven !

"Good night! good night !--and is it so ?
And must I from my Rosa go?
Oh, Rosa ! say "Good night!' once more,
And I'll repeat it o'er and o'er,
Till the first glance of dawning light
Shall find us saying still, Good night!

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