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THE SHIELD.

Oh! did you not hear a voice of death?

And did you not mark the paly form Which rode on the silver mist of the heath,

And sung a ghostly dirge in the storm ?

Was it a wailing bird of the gloom,

Which shrieks on the house of woe all night? Or a shivering fiend that flew to a tomb,

To howl and to feed till the glance of light ?

'Twas not the death-bird's cry from the wood,

Nor shivering fiend that bung in the blast; 'Twas the shade of Helderic-man of blood-

It screams for the guilt of days that are past !

See how the red, red lightning strays,

And scares the gliding ghosts of the heath! Now on the leafless yew it plays

Where hangs the shield of this son of death !

That shield is blushing with murderous stains ;

Long has it hung from the cold yew's spray ; It is blown by storms and washed by rains,

But neither can take the blood away.

Oft by that yew, on the blasted field,

Demons dance to the red moon's light; While the damp boughs creak, and the swinging shield

Sings to the raving spirit of night !

THE TEAR.

On beds of snow the moonbeam slept,

And chilly was the midnight gloom,
When by the damp grave Ellen wept-

Sweet maid ! it was her Lindor's tomb!

A warm tear gushed, the wintry air

Congealed it as it flowed away;
All night it lay an ice-drop there,

At morn it glittered in the ray!

An angel, wandering from her sphere

Who saw this bright, this frozen gem,
To dew-eyed Pity brought the tear,

And hung it on her (liadem !

A DREAM.

I THOUGHT this heart consuming lay

On Cupid's burning shrine :
I thought he stole thy heart away,

And placed it near to mine.
I saw thy heart begin to melt,

Like ice before the sun ;
Till both a glow congenial felt,

And mingled into one !

TO A LADY.

ON HER SINGING.

The song has taught my heart to feel

Those soothing thoughts of leavenly love,
Which o'er the sainted spirits steal

When listening to the spheres above !
When, tired of life and misery,

I wish to sigh my latest breath,
Oh, Emma ! I will fly to thee,

And thou shalt sing me into death!
And if along thy lip and cheek

That smile of heavenly softness play,
Which, -ah ! forgive a mind that's weak, --

So oft has stolen my mind away ;
Thou'lt seem an angel of the sky,

That comes to charm me into bliss :
I'll
gaze

and die-who would not die,
death were half so sweet as this?

WRITTEN IN A COMMON-PLACE BOOK, CALLED

“THE BOOK OF FOLLIES. In which every one that opened it should contribute something.

TO THE BOOK OF FOLLJES.

This tribute's from a wretched elf,
Who hails thee emblem of himself !
The book of life, which I have traced,
Has been, like thee, a motley waste
Of follies scribbled o'er and o’er,
One folly bringing hundreds more.
Some have indeed been writ so neat,
In characters so fair, so sweet,

That those who judge not too severely
Have said they loved such follies dearly!
Yet still, O book ! the allusion stands;
For these were penned by female hands;
The rest,-alas! I own the truth, -
Have all been scribbled so uncouth,
That prudence, with a withering look,
Disdainful flings away the book.
Like thine, its pages here and there
Have oft been stained with blots of care:
And sometimes hours of peace, I own,
Upon some fairer leaves have shown,
White as the snowings of that Heaven
By which those hours of peace were given.
But now no longer-such, oh! such
The blast of Disappointment's touch!
No longer now those hours appear;
Each leaf is sullied by a tear :
Blank, blank is every page with care,
Not e'en a folly brightens there.
Will they yet brighten ?-Never, never !
Then shut the book, o God, for ever !

TO JULIA.

WEEPING.

Oh ! if your tears are given to care,

If real woe disturbs your peace,
Come to my bosom, weeping fair !

And I will bid your weeping cease.

But if with Fancy's visioned fears,

With dreams of woe your bosom thrill;
You look so lovely in your tears,

That I must bid you drop them still !

CHARITY.

'Neither do I condemn thee: go, and sin no more.'-ST. JOHN, chap. viii.

O WOMAN! if by simple wile

Thy soul has strayed from honour's track,
'Tis mercy only can beguile,

By gentle ways, the wanderer back.
The stain that on thy virtue lies,

Washed by thy tears, may yet decay ;
As clouds that sully morning skies

May all be wept in showers away.

Go, go-be innocent, and live

The tongnes of men may wound thee sore ;
But Heaven in pity can forgive,

And bids thee 'go, and sin no more !!

.

AT NIGHT.
At night, when all is still around,
How sweet to hear the distant sound

Of footstep, coming soft and light !
What pleasure in the anxious beat,
With which the bosom flies to meet

That foot that comes so soft at night!
And then, at night, how sweet to say
• 'Tis late, my love !' and chide delay,

Though still the western clouds are bright;
Oh ! happy too the silent press,
The eloquence of mute caress,

With those we love, exchanged at night!
At night, what dear employ to trace,
In fancy, every glowing grace

That's hid by darkness from the sight!
And guess, by every broken sigh;
What tales of bliss the shirouded eye

Is telling from the soul at night!

TO.'Moria pur quando vuol, non è bisogna mutar ni faccia ni voce per essèr un Angelo'

DIE when you will, you need not wear
At heaven's court a form more fair

Than beauty here on earth has given;
Keep but the lovely looks we see-
The voice we hear--and you will be

An angel ready-made for heaven !

FANNY, DEAREST.
Ou ! had I leisure to sigh and mourn,

Fanny, dearest, for thee I'd sigh ;
And every smile on my cheek should turn

To tears when thou art nigh.
But between love, and wine, and sleep,

So busy a life I live,
That even the time it would take to weep

Is more than my heart can give.

Then bid me not to despair and pine,

Fanny, dearest of all the dears!
The Love that's ordered to bathe in wine

Would be sure to take cold in tears.

Reflected bright in this heart of mine,

Fanny, dearest, thy image lies ;
But oh, the mirror would cease to shine,

If dimmed too often with sighs.

They lose the half of beauty's light,

Who view it through sorrow's tear:
And 'tis but to see thee truly bright

That I keep my eye-beam clear.

Then wait no longer til tears shall flow,

Fanny, dearest-the hope is vain ;
If sunshine cannot dissolve thy snow,

I shall never attempt it with rain.

SONG.
I NE'ER on that lip for a minute have gazed,

But a thousand temptations beset me,
And I've thought, as the dear little rubies you raised,

How delicious 'twould be - if you'd let me!

Then be not so angry for what I have done,

Nor say that you've sworn to forget me ;
They were buds of temptation too pcuting to shun,

And I thought that-yon could not but let me ! When your lip with a whisper came close to my check,

O think how bewitching it met me!
And, plain as the eye of a Venus could speak,

Your eye seemed to say-you would let me!

Then forgive the transgression, and bid me remain,

For in truth, if I go, you'll regret me; Or, oh !-let me try

the transgression again, And I'll do all you wish---will you let me ?

LIOSIT SOUNDS THE HARP.
LIGHT sounds the harp when the combat is over,

When heroes are resting, and joy is in bloom ;
When laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover,

And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume.

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