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But if your heart be not so free,

Oh! if another share that heart,
Tell not the damning tale to me,

But mingle mercy with your art.
I'd rather think you black as hell,

Than find yon to be all divine,
And know that heart could love so well,

Yet kncw that heart would not be mine!

TO JULIA.

OX HIER BIRTHDAY.

WHEN Time was entwining the garland of years,

Which to crown my beloved was given, Though some of the leaves might be sullied with tears,

Yet the flowers were all gathered in heaven !
And long may this garland be sweet to the eye,

May its verdure for ever be new!
Young Love shall enrich it with many a sigh,

And pity shall nurse it with dew !

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THE SURPRISE.

CHLORIS, I swear, by all I ever swore,
That from this hour I shall not love thee more.
• What ! love no more? Oh! why this altered vow?'
Because I cannot love thee more-than now !

TO MRS.

ON HEP BEAUTIFUL TRANSLATION OF VOITURE'S KISS.

Mon âme sur ma lèvre était lors toute entière,
Pour savourer le miel qui sur la vôtre était ;
Mais en me retirant, elle resta derrière,
Tant de ce doux plaisir l'amorce l'arrêtoit !--Voit.

How heavenly was the poet's doom,

To breathe his spirit through a kiss ;
And lose within so sweet a tomb

The trembling messenger of bliss !

And, ah ! his soul returned to feel

That it again could ravishesl be;
For in the kiss that thou didst steal,

His life and soul have fled to thee!

ON THE DEATH OF A LADY.

SWEET spirit ! if thy airy sleep

Nor sees my tears, nor hears my sighs,
Oh ! I will weep, in luxury weep,

Till the last heart's-drop fills mine eyes.
But if thy sainted soul can feel,

And mingles in our misery,
Then, then, my breaking heart I'll seal-

Thou shalt not hear one sigh from me !

The beam of morn was on the stream,

But sullen clouds the day deform :
Thou wert, indeed, that morning beam,

And death, alas! that sullen storm.

Thou wert not forined for living here,

For thou wert kindred with the sky;
Yet, yet we held thee all so dear,

We thought thou wert not formed to die !

TO ROSA.

Does the harp of Rosa slumber?
Once it breathed the sweetest number !
Never does a wilder song
Steal the breezy lyre along,
When the wind, in odours dying,
Woos it with enamoured sighing.

Does the harp of Rosa cease ?
Once it told a tale of peace
To her lover's throbbing breast-
Then he was divinely blest !
Ah ! but Rosa loves no more,
Therefore Rosa's song is o'er;
And her harp neglected lies ;
And her boy forgotten sighs.
Silent harp—forgotten lover-
Rosa's love and song are over !

NATURE'S LABELS.

A FRAGMENT.

In vain we fondly strive to trace
The soul's reflection in the face ;
In vain we dwell on lines and crosses,
Crooked mouth, or short proboscis;
Boobies have looked as wise and bright
As Plato or the Stagyrite :
And mapy a sage and learned skull
Has peeped through windows dark and dull !
Since then, though art do all it can,
We ne'er can reach the inward man
Nor inward woman, from without
(Though, ma'am, you smile, as if in doubt),
I think 'twere well if Nature could
(And Nature could, if Nature would)
Some pretty short descriptions write,
In tablets large, in black and white,
Which she might hang about our throttles,
Like labels upon physic-bottles.
There we might read of all---But stay-
As learned dialectics say,
The argument most apt and ample
For common use, is the example.
For instance, then, if Nature's care
Had not arranged those traits so fair,
Which speak the soul of Lucy L-nd-n,
This is the label she'd have pinned on.

LABEL FIRST.
Within this vase there lies enshrincil
The purest, brightest gem of mind !
Though Feeling's hand may sometimes throw
Upon its charms the shade of woe,
The lustre of the gem, when veiled,
Shall be but mellowed, not concealed.
Now, sirs, imagine, if you're able,
That Nature wrote a second label,
They're her own words -- at least suppose so-
And boldly pin it on Pomposo.

LABEL SECOND,
When I composerl the fustian brain
Of this redoubted Captain Vain,
I had at hand but few ingredients,
And so was forced to use expedients.
I put therein some small discerning,
A grain of sense, a grain of learning ;
And when I saw the void behind,
I filled it up with—froth and wind !

TO JULIA.
Mock me no more with love's beguiling dream,

A dream, I find, illusory as sweet :,
One smile of friendship, nay, of cold esteem,

Is dearer far than passion's bland deceit !
I've heard you oft eternal truth declare ;

Your heart was only mine, I once believed. Ah! shall I say that all your vows were air ?

And must I say my hopes were all deceived ? Vow, then, no longer that our souls are twined,

That all our joys are felt with mutual zeal: Julia ! 'tis pity, pity makes you kind ;

You know I love, and you would seem to feel. But shall I still go revel in those arms

On bliss in which affection takes no part? No, no! farewell ! you give me but your charms,

When I had fondly thought you gave your heart.

TO JULIA
I saw the peasant's hand unkind

From yonder oak the ivy sever;
They seemed in very being twined ;

Yet now the oak is fresh as ever.

Not so the widowed ivy shines :

Torn from its dear and only stay, In drooping widowhood it pines,

And scatters all its blooms away! Thus, Julia, did our hearts entwine,

Till fate disturbed their tender ties : Thus gay indifference blooms in thine,

While mine, deserted, droops and dies !

SYMPATHY.

TO JULIA.

Sine me sit nulla Verius.--Sulpicia.
Our hearts, my love, were doomed to be
The genuine twins of Sympathy:

They live with one sensation :
In joy or grief, but most in love,
Our heart-strings musically move,

And thrill with like vibration.

How often have I heard thee say,
Thy vital pulse shall cease to play

When mine no more is moving !
Since, now, to feel a joy alone
Were worse to thee than feeling none :

Such sympathy in loving !

TO MRS. M

SWEET lady! look not thus again :

Those little pouting smiles recall A maid remembered now with pain,

Who was my love, my life, my all ! Oh! while this heart delirious took

Sweet poison from her thrilling eye, Thus would she pout, and lisp, and look,

And I would hear, and gaze, and sigh ! Yes, I did love her-madly love

She was the sweetest, best deceiver ! And oft she swore she'd never rove !

And I was destined to believe her! Then, lady, do not wear the smile

Of her whose smile could thus betray: Alas ! I think the lovely wile

Again might steal my heart away.

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