Oh! I am wrapt aloft. My spirit soars VII. AH! who can say, however fair his view, Let thoughtless youth its seeming joys pursue, Soon will they know 141 X. omance o'er every wood and stream, ed, my infant mind to fire; 'I'd with many a wondering dream, en, the gust that woke sule the moon invoke, by the restless surge. ught, with life's false smiles, ant Fancy spreads no more her wiles, And dark forebodings now my bosom fill. XI. HUSH'D is the lyre-the hand that swept The low and pensive wires, Robb'd of its cunning, from the task retires. Yes it is still-the lyre is still; The spirit which its slumbers broke, Hath pass'd away,-and that weak hand that woke, Its forest melodies hath lost its skill. VIII. AND must thou go, and must we part! The pang that rends in twain my heart, Oh, Fanny, dost thou share in it! Thy sex is fickle,-when away, Some happier youth may win thy IX. SONNET. WHEN I sit musing on the checquer'd past, When that was all my wealth.-'Tis true my breast Though wrong'd, I love her yet in anger love, For she was most unworthy.-Then I prove Vindictive joy; and on my stern front gleams, Thron'd in dark clouds, inflexible * The native pride of my much injur'd heart. 3 X. WHEN high romance o'er every wood and stream, Now to my sober'd thought, with life's false smiles, The vagrant Fancy spreads no more her wiles, XI. HUSH'D is the lyre-the hand that swept The low and pensive wires, Robb'd of its cunning, from the task retires. Yes it is still the lyre is still; The spirit which its slumbers broke, Hath pass'd away,-and that weak hand that woke, Its forest melodies hath lost its skill. |