Could you but see my constant heart, And read each thought that's written there, 'Twould to your gentle breast impart

More than my words can e'er declare.

Ah! Molly, do you ever sigh?

Or ever feel a gentle flame?

And ever, dearest Molly, try,

But all in vain, its cause to name?

Credimus, an, qui amant, ipsi sibi somnia fingunt?

VIRGIL.

'Twas at the sultry noontide hour,
To shun the fervours of the plain,
When Mary sought her favourite bower,
And, sweetly pensive, sung this strain:

O haste, my love, to Mary's arms,
Nor longer from thy mistress rove!
Nature without thee has no charms-

O haste to bless thy Mary's love!

Enraptured by the charmer's theme,

To press

her to my breast I flew;

But, waking, found 'twas all a dream,

And heard nought but the cat cry-mew!!

FROM THE ITALIAN.

Go ye, who, rioting amid the sweets Profusely scattered round you, rashly cry, While the Circean cup is mantling high, That Care shall never enter your retreats! Go, revel in your wine and festive joy,

With hearts as sportive as the summer breeze! And think your brimming cup can never cloy, Nor bear a bitter "poison in its lees!" Go, seize the visions of your fleeting hour! I quit you for the soul-appalling power, That rides upon the lowering tempest's wings, And o'er my fate a dreadful darkness flings.

So long have we been mated, fell Despair,
That now I love thy wild and haggard air,

And all the Gorgon horrours of thy brow.
I greet thee, as an old and welcome guest,
And would not of thy tortures rid my breast

For all this world can promise. Even now, When thou dost point to my distempered view The fairy scenes, which, ah! so swiftly flew! Where Love and Fancy formed of wastes of flowers

A wilderness of ever-varying bliss,

Through which, in union linked, the dancing hours

Led me, a willing captive;-and say'st this, This dark, cold grave is my sole refuge here— Yes, even now, to me thou art more dear Than all the joys fantastick mortals prize,