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And still "Good night!' my Rosa say—
But whisper still, 'A minute stay;'
And I will stay, and every minute
Shall have an age of rapture in it.
We'll kiss and kiss in quick delight,
And murmur, while we kiss, ‘Good night!
Good night !' you'll murmur with a sigh,
And tell me it is time to fly:
And I will vow to kiss no more,
Yet kiss you closer than before;
Till slumber seal our weary sight-
And then, my love! my soul ? •Good night!

LIKE him who trusts to summer skies,

And puts his little bark to sea,
Is he who, lured by smiling eyes,

Consigns his simple heart to thee :
For fickle is the summer wind,

And sadly may the bark be tossed ;
For thou art sure to change thy mind,

And then the wretched heart is lost !


Oh! why should the girl of my soul be in tears

At a meeting of rapture like this,
When the glooms of the past, and the sorrow of years,

Have been paid by a moment of bliss ?
Are they shed for that moment of blissful delight

Which dwells on her memory yet?
Do they flow, like the dews of the amorous night,

From the warmth of the sun that has set ?
Oh ! sweet is the tear on that languishing smile,

That smile which is loveliest then;
And if such are the drops that delight can beguile,

Thou shalt weep them again and again !



The wisest soul, by anguish torn,

Will soon unlearn the lore it knew;
And when the shining casket's worn,

The gem within will tarnish too.

But love's an essence of the soul,

Which sinks not with this chain of clay-
Which throbs beyond the chill control

Of withering pain or pale decay.
And surely when the touch of death

Dissolves the spirit's mortal ties,
Love still attends the soaring breath,

And makes it purer for the skies !
Oh, Rosa ! when, to seek its sphere,

My soul shall leave this orb of men,
That love it found so blissful here

Shall be its best of blisses then !
And, as in fabled dreams of old,

Some airy genius, child of time,
Presided o’er each star that rolled,

And tracked it through its path sublime;
So thou, fair planet, not unled,

Shalt through thy mortal orbit stray ;
Thy lover's shade, divinely wed,

Shall linger round thy wandering way.
Let other spirits rauge the sky,

And brighten in the solar gem;
I'll bask beneath that lucid eye,

Nor envy worlds of suns to them !
And oh ! if airy shapes may steal

To mingle with a mortal frame,
Then, then, my love !—but drop the veil !

Hide, hide from Heaven the unholy flame.
No!-when that heart shall cease to beat,

And when that breath at length is free;
Then, Rosa, soul to soul we'll meet,

And mingle to eternity.


HERE is one leaf reserved for me,
From all thy sweet memorials free ;
And here my simple song might tell
The feelings thou must guess so well.
But could I thus, within thy mind,
One little vacant corner find,
Where no impression yet is seen,
Where no memorial yet has been,
Oh! it should be my sweetest care
To write my name for ever there!


Eque brevi verbo ferre perenne malum.

Secundus, Eleg. vii.

STILL the question I must parry,

Still a wayward truant prove : Where I love, I must not marry,

Where I marry, cannot love.

Were she fairest of creation,

With the least presuming mind; Learned without affectation ;

Not deceitful, yet refined ;

Wise enough, but never rigid ;

Gay, but not too lightly free ; Chaste as snow, and yet not frigid;

Warm, yet satisfied with me :

Were she all this, ten times over,

All that Heaven to carth allows, I should be too much her lover

Ever to become her spouse.

Love will never bear enslaving;

Summer garments suit him best : Bliss itself is not worth having,

If we're by compulsion blest.


FRIEND of my soul ! this goblet sip,

'Twill chase that pensive tear; 'Tis not so sweet as woman's lip, But, oh! 'tis more sincere. Like her delusive beam,

"Twill steal away thy mind ; But, like affection's dream,

It leaves no sting behind !

Come, twine the wreath thy brows to shade;

These flowers were culled at noon;-
Like woman's love the rose will fade,
But ah ! not half so soon!
For though the flower's decayed,

Its fragrance is not o'er;
But once when love's betrayed,

The heart can bloom no more!


In lacrymas verterat omne merum.

Tib. lib. i. eleg. 5.
Press the grape, and let it pour
Around the board its purple shower ;
And while the drops my goblet steep,
I'll think-in woe the clusters weep.
Weep on, weep on, my pouting vine !
Heaven grant no tears but tears of wine.
Weep on ; and, as thy sorrows flow,
I'll taste the luxury of woe !


Thou hast sent me a flowery band,

And told me 'twas fresh from the field ; That the leaves were untouched by the hand,

And the purest of odours would yield.

And indeed it was fragrant and fair ;

But, if it were handled by thee, It would bloom with a livelier air,

And would surely be sweeter to me!

Then take it, and let it entwine

Thy tresses, so flowing and bright; And each little floweret will shine

More rich than a gem to my sight,

Let the odorous gale of thy breath

Embalm it with many a sigh ; Nay, let it be withered to death

Beneath the warm noon of thine eye.

And instead of the dew that it bears,

The dew dropping fresh from the tree, On its leaves let me number the teurs

That affection has stolen from thee!


PHILLI, you little rosy rake,

That heart of yours I long to rifle : Come, give it me, and do not make

So much ado about a trifle !



I'll ask the sylph who round thee flies,

And in thy breath his pinion dips,
Who suns him in thy lucent eyes,

And faints upon thy sighing lips :
I'll ask him where's the veil of sleep

That used to shade thy looks of light;
And why those eyes their vigil keep,

When other suns are sunk in night.
And I will say–her angel breast

Has never throbbed with guilty sting ;
Her bosom is the sweetest nest

Where Slumber could repose his wing!
And I will say–her chceks of flame,

Which glow like roses in the sun,
Have never felt a blush of shame,

Except for what her eyes have done !
Then tell me why, thou child of air !

Does Slumber from her eyelids rove?
What is her heart's impassioned care ?-

Perhaps, oh sylph! perhaps 'tis love!

A far conserva, e cumulo d'amanti.- Past. Fid.
AND are you then a thing of art,

Seducing all and loving none ?
And have I strove to gain a heart

Which every coxcomb thinks his own?


And do you, like the dotard's fire,

Which, powerless of enjoying any,
Feeds its abortive sick desire,

By trifling impotent with many ?
Do you thus seek to flirt a number,

And through a round of danglers run,
Because your heart's insipid slumber

Could never wake to fecl for one ?
Tell me at once if this be true,

And I shall calm my jealous breast;
Shall learn to join the dangling crew,

And share your simpers with the rest.

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