And light us safely o'er the shoals of love, And then, indulgent heav'n, if my fate TO A LADY, WHO, UPON RECEIVING A FLOWER, OBSERVED THAT NATURE COULD NOT HAVE MADE IT MORE PERFECT. COULD Nature do no more for this fair flower? Assert it not, fair maid—it is not true; To make a fairer she had surely power, ་ Who made a fairer when she modell'd you *. *For the thought of this little piece, and one of the lines, the Author confesses himself to have been indebted to an ingenious friend. IN CANZONET 11. In my bosom contentment shall reign, And despair shall torment me no more; I have seen my lov'd fair one again, And she came with a smile to my door. I have seen her, tho' transient her stay, Rapid day, the strong reason explain Why thy steeds were so quick to be gone, To remove my sweet angel again, And to leave me to linger alone. Come again, and, to merit my praise, Which can flow from the bosom of love. LINES INSERTED IN A POCKET-BOOK. 301 O return, and, to win my good will, When I see her approach from afar, Turn thy steeds with their heads to a hill, And lock fast ev'ry wheel of thy car. LINES INSERTED IN A POCKET-BOOK. Go, little book, I charge thee post away; Whisper the hopeless passion in her ear, When at his Lucy's grave he fondly sigh'd. Go, and return not; but from day to day Go, and return not, but for ever stay, The sacred pledge of unforbidden love. For know, if to this hand these leaves return, And to this heart unwelcome tidings bear, Thou must a flame-devoted victim burn Upon the kindled altar of despair. But if thou stay, and her propitious eye TO THE MOON. REPLENISH'D Moon, whose unobstructed beam Once more upon the windows of my cot Shines with such sweet indulgence, welcome still! I bid thee welcome with a cheerful heart, Which loves thy gentle mitigated ray, And the sweet smile of mute benevolence Or leave its couch to cross a stormy sky, And post triumphantly from cloud to cloud- Cover'd with winter's snow, or dimly rise The ray of mellow ev'ning in the west- With all the little music which the lyre Struck by my hand can utter. Yet, fair moon, gone. Much as I love thee, let me wish thee Empty thy golden globe. Reverse thy horns, Swiftly renewing, till thy ample orb Once more arrive at her full-lumin'd hour. For know, unwearied empress of the night, Soon as thy lamp industrious shall have run My promise-bound companion in the dance. |