Or bloom a myrtle, from whose odorous boughs
My love might weave gay garlands for her brows.
When twilight stole across the fading vale,
To fan my love I'd be the evening gale;
Mourn in the soft folds of her swelling vest,
And flutter my faint pinions on her breast!
On seraph wing I'd float a dream by night,
To soothe my love with shadows of delight:-
Or soar aloft to be the spangled skies,

And gaze upon her with a thousand eyes!

As when the savage, who his drowsy frame
Had basked beneath the sun's unclouded flame,
Awakes amid the troubles of the air,

The skiey deluge, and white lightning's glare-
Aghast he scours before the tempest's sweep,
And sad recalls the sunny hour of sleep:-
So tossed by storms along life's wildering way,
Mine eye reverted views that cloudless day,
When by my native brook I wont to rove,
While Hope with kisses nursed the infant Love.

Dear native brook! like Peace, so placidly
Smoothing through fertile fields thy current meek!
Dear native brook! where first young Poesy
Stared wildly-eager in her noontide dream;
Where blameless pleasures dimple Quiet's cheek,
As water-lilies ripple thy slow stream!
Dear native haunts! where Virtue still is gay,
Where Friendship's fix'd star sheds a mellowed ray,

Where Love a crown of thornless roses wears,
Where softened Sorrow smiles within her tears;
And Memory, with a vestal's chaste employ,
Unceasing feeds the lambent flame of joy!
No more your sky-larks melting from the sight
Shall thrill the attuned heart-string with delight—
No more shall deck your pensive pleasures sweet
With wreaths of sober hue my evening seat.
Yet dear to Fancy's eye your varied scene
Of wood, hill, dale, and sparkling brook between!
Yet sweet to Fancy's ear the warbled song,
That soars on morning's wing your vales among.

Scenes of my hope! the aching eye ye leave Like yon bright hues that paint the clouds of eve! Tearful and saddening with the saddened blaze Mine eye the gleam pursues with wistful gaze: Sees shades on shades with deeper tint impend, Till chill and damp the moonless night descend.

THE ROSE.

As late each flower that sweetest blows

I plucked, the garden's pride!

Within the petals of a rose

A sleeping Love I spied.

Around his brows a beamy wreath
Of many a lucent hue;

All purple glowed his cheek, beneath,
Inebriate with dew.

I softly seized the unguarded power,
Nor scared his balmy rest:

And placed him, caged within the flower,
On spotless Sara's breast.

But when unweeting of the guile

Awoke the prisoner sweet,

He struggled to escape awhile

And stamped his faery feet.

Ah! soon the soul-entrancing sight
Subdued the impatient boy!

He gazed! he thrilled with deep delight!

Then clapped his wings for joy.

"And O!" he cried-" of magic kind

What charms this throne endear!

Some other Love let Venus find

I'll fix my empire here."

THE KISS.

ONE kiss, dear maid! I said and sighed

Your scorn the little boon denied.

Ah why refuse the blameless bliss?

Can danger lurk within a kiss?

Yon viewless wanderer of the vale,
The spirit of the western gale,

At morning's break, at evening's close
Inhales the sweetness of the rose,
And hovers o'er the uninjured bloom
Sighing back the soft perfume.
Vigour to the Zephyr's wing
Her nectar-breathing kisses fling;
And he the glitter of the dew
Scatters on the rose's hue.
Bashful lo! she bends her head,
And darts a blush of deeper red!

Too well those lovely lips disclose
The triumphs of the opening rose;
O fair! O graceful! bid them prove
As passive to the breath of Love.
In tender accents, faint and low,
Well-pleased I hear the whispered "No!"
The whispered "No"-how little meant!
Sweet falsehood that endears consent!
For on those lovely lips the while
Dawns the soft relenting smile,

And tempts with feigned dissuasion coy
The gentle violence of Joy.

TO A YOUNG ASS.

ITS MOTHER BEING TETHERED NEAR IT.

Poor little foal of an oppressed race!
I love the languid patience of thy face:
And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread,
And clap thy ragged coat, and pat thy head.
But what thy dulled spirits hath dismayed,
That never thou dost sport along the glade?
And (most unlike the nature of things young)
That earthward still thy moveless head is hung?
Do thy prophetic fears anticipate,

Meek child of misery! thy future fate?

The starving meal, and all the thousand aches
"Which patient merit of the unworthy takes?"
Or is thy sad heart thrilled with filial pain
To see thy wretched mother's shortened chain?
And, truly very piteous is her lot-

Chained to a log within a narrow spot,

Where the close-eaten grass is scarcely seen,
While sweet around her waves the tempting green!
Poor Ass! thy master should have learnt to show
Pity-best taught by fellowship of woe!

For much I fear me that he lives like thee,
Half famished in a land of luxury !

How askingly its footsteps hither bend,

It seems to say, " And have I then one friend ?"
Innocent foal! thou poor despised forlorn!