My constant heart of fear disarms,
Revives my hopes, and bids me live.

Here I can trace the locks of gold

Which round thy snowy forehead wave, The cheeks which sprung from beauty's mould, The lips which made me beauty's slave.

Here I can trace

-ah, no! that eye,

Whose azure floats in liquid fire,

Must all the painter's art defy,

And bid him from the task retire.

Here I behold its beauteous hue;

But where's the beam so sweetly straying

Which gave a lustre to its blue,

Like Luna o'er the ocean playing?

Sweet copy! far more dear to me,
Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art,

Than all the living forms could be,

Save her who placed thee next my heart.

She placed it, sad, with needless fear,

Lest time might shake my wavering soul, Unconscious that her image there

Held every sense in fast control.

she was of an humble, if not equivocal, station in life,

and that

she had long light golden hair, of which he used to show a lock,

as well as her picture, among his friends. — Moore.]

Through hours, through years, through time, 't will

cheer;

My hope, in gloomy moments, raise;

In life's last conflict 't will appear,

And meet my fond expiring gaze.

TO LESBIA.

LESBIA! since far from you I've ranged,
Our souls with fond affection glow not;
You say 'tis I, not you, have changed,

I'd tell you why,

but yet I know not.

Your polished brow no cares have crost;
And, Lesbia! we are not much older
Since, trembling, first my heart I lost,
Or told my love, with hope grown bolder.

Sixteen was then our utmost age,

Two years have lingering past away, love!
And now new thoughts our minds engage,
At least I feel disposed to stray, love!

"Tis I that am alone to blame,

I, that am guilty of love's treason; Since your sweet breast is still the same, Caprice must be my only reason.

I do not, love! suspect your truth,
With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not;
Warm was the passion of my youth,

One trace of dark deceit it leaves not.

No, no, my flame was not pretended;
For, oh! I loved you most sincerely;

And though our dream at last is endedMy bosom still esteems you dearly.

No more we meet in yonder bowers;
Absence has made me prone to roving;

But older, firmer hearts than ours
Have found monotony in loving.

Your cheek's soft bloom is unimpaired, New beauties still are daily bright'ning, Your eye for conquest beams prepared, The forge of love's resistless lightning.

Armed thus, to make their bosoms bleed, Many will throng to sigh like me, love! More constant they may prove, indeed; Fonder, alas! they ne'er can be, love!

LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY.

[As the author was discharging his pistols in a garden, two ladies passing near the spot were alarmed by the sound of a bullet hissing near them; to one of whom the following stanzas were addressed the next morning.]*

DOUBTLESS, Sweet girl! the hissing lead,

Wafting destruction o'er thy charms,

And hurtling o'er thy lovely head,

Has filled that breast with fond alarms.

Surely some envious demon's force,
Vexed to behold such beauty here,
Impelled the bullet's viewless course,
Diverted from its first career.

Yes! in that nearly fatal hour

The ball obeyed some hell-born guide;
But Heaven, with interposing power,
In pity turned the death aside.

Yet, as perchance one trembling tear
Upon that thrilling bosom fell;
Which I, th' unconscious cause of fear,
Extracted from its glistening cell:

Say, what dire penance can atone

For such an outrage done to thee?

* [The occurrence took place at Southwell, and the beautiful

lady to whom the lines were addressed was Miss Houson.]

Arraigned before thy beauty's throne,
What punishment wilt thou decree?

Might I perform the judge's part,

The sentence I should scarce deplore; It only would restore a heart

Which but belonged to thee before.

The least atonement I can make
Is to become no longer free;
Henceforth I breathe but for thy sake,
Thou shalt be all in all to me.

But thou, perhaps, may'st now reject
Such expiation of my guilt:

Come then, some other mode elect;
Let it be death, or what thou wilt.

Choose then, relentless! and I swear
Nought shall thy dread decree prevent ;
Yet hold one little word forbear!

Let it be aught but banishment.

LOVE'S LAST ADIEU.

'Αεί, δ ̓ ἀεί με φεύγει. - ANACREON.

THE roses of love glad the garden of life,

[dew,

Though nurtured 'mid weeds dropping pestilent