To bigots and to sects unknown, Bow down beneath the Almighty's Throne; He, who is merciful and just, Will not reject a child of dust, Although his meanest care. Father of Light! to Thee I call, Thou, who canst mark the sparrow's fall, Avert the death of sin. Thou, who canst guide the wandering star, Whose mantle is yon boundless sky, My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive; Instruct me how to die. 1807. [Now first published.] TO A VAIN LADY. Aн, heedless girl! why thus disclose Oh, thou wilt weep, imprudent maid, For all the follies thou hast said Vain girl! thy ling'ring woes are nigh, Nor fall the specious spoiler's prey. Dost thou repeat, in childish boast, The words man utters to deceive? Thy peace, thy hope, thy all is lost, If thou can'st venture to believe. While now amongst thy female peers These tales in secret silence hush, Will not the laughing boy despise For she who takes a soft delight Cease, if you prize your beauty's reign! One, who is thus from nature vain, I pity, but I cannot love. January 15. 1807. [Now first published.} TO ANNE. OH, Anne! your offences to me have been grievous; I thought from my wrath no atonement could save you; But woman is made to command and deceive us I look'd in your face, and I almost forgave you. I vow'd I could ne'er for a moment respect you, Yet thought that a day's separation was long: When we met, I determin'd again to suspect you Your smile soon convinced me suspicion was wrong. I swore, in a transport of young indignation, With beauty like yours, oh, how vain the contention! Thus lowly I sue for forgiveness before you ;At once to conclude such a fruitless dissension, Befalse, my sweet Anne, when I cease to adore you! January 16. 1807. [Now first published.] TO THE SAME. Oн say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decreed The heart which adores you should wish to dissever; Such Fates were to me most unkind ones indeed, – To bear me from love and from beauty for ever. Your frowns, lovely girl, are the Fates which alone As the ivy and oak, in the forest entwined, The rage of the tempest united must weather, My love and my life were by nature design'd To flourish alike, or to perish together. Then say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decreed, Your lover should bid you a lasting adieu; Till Fate can ordain that his bosom shall bleed, His soul, his existence, are centred in you. 1807. [Now first published.] TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET BEGINNING, ''SAD IS MY VERSE,' YOU SAY, 6 AND YET NO TEAR. THY verse is "sad" enough, no doubt: Yet there is one I pity more; And much, alas! I think he needs it: For he, I'm sure, will suffer sore, Who, to his own misfortune, reads it. Thy rhymes, without the aid of magic, But would you make our bosoms bleed, And of no common pang complainyou would make us weep indeed, If Tell us, you'll read them o'er again. March 8. 1807. [Now first published.] ON FINDING A FAN. IN one who felt as once he felt, This might, perhaps, have fann'd the flame But now his heart no more will melt, Because that heart is not the same. As when the ebbing flames are low, Thus has it been with passion's fires- |