She never formed a wish that was not mine.

I have known many, whom the thoughtless world

Would call more fair, more beautiful than

she;

But never have my eyes beheld the face Which more expressed that evenness of soul, That meek, sweet temper, which is ever pleased

When it can give delight; that mind, informed

By reason's precepts, candid and sincere; That breast by every gentle passion swayed, The throne of virtue, innocence and truth; And all those mental charms, by which the

sex

Can make this world a paradise to man. I oft have looked upon her angel eyes,

To see sweet fancy sporting in their beams;
Have looked, until unutterable love
Has called the tear of transport to my own.
I could not help it-I ne'er think on her,
But what my eyes are truants to my will,
And play the infant—

Here we strayed.

How strongly memory paints upon my heart That dear, dear glance, which first betrayed her love!

How widely different was her love from mine!

For though with such a warmth her bosom glowed,

That she has often told me she could die, If that would but ensure my happiness;

Yet was it mild as is the solar ray,

In that soft season, when the plastick hand

Of Nature moulds, for Amalthea's horn, Her embryo fruits, and scatters wild her flowers.

Mine was the ardour of the mid-day blaze, When on the torrid regions Phoebus pours His fervid beams, and nature burns around. Here I have plucked the wild flowers for her breast,

And thought the simple blossom of the thorn, Placed there, more lovely than the garden

rose,

And sweeter than the violet of the vale. Yet-why I know not-I have sometimes felt

As if those flowers should not be suffered

there;

They might from her loved bosom steal its

snows,

Or rob her balmy breath of half its sweets; And I have taken them, unknown to her, And torn their leaves, and strewed them in our walks.

And once-such fancies fill a lover's brain! Alas, that e'er their warning should be true! I thought I heard a dying flowret say,

66

Beware, rash youth! those gusts of passion rule;

Torn from her breast, my fate may yet be thine!"

H. asks, how "those flowers could steal the snows from her loved bosom, or rob her balmy breath of half its sweets?” I quoted "The forward violet," &c. of SHAKSPEARE:

not that I thought either rhyme or reason necessary.

RONDEAU.

ALAS! my friend, said Bob to Joe, While gloom sat heavy on his brow, You bid me mock the fiend of wo,

And look as gay as you do now: But when the demon rules the hour, What can the sinking heart defend? What bid defiance to his power?—

Said Joe to Bob-a LASS, my friend.