So I left this young Sappho, and hasten'd to fly

To those sweeter logicians in bliss,
Who argue the point with a soul-telling eye,

And convince us at once with a kiss!
Oh! Susan was then all the world unto me,

But Susan was piously given;
And the worst of it was, we could never agree

On the road that was shortest to heaven! “Oh, Susan!" I've said, in the moments of mirth,

“ What's devotion to thee or to me? I devoutly believe there's a heaven on earth,

And believe that that heaven 's in thee!”

Was that her footstep on the hill

Her voice upon the gale ?No; t' was the wind, and all is still:

Oh, maid of Marlivale ! Come to me, love, I've wander'd far,

'Tis past the promised hour : Come to me, love, the twilight star

Shall guide thee to my bower.

66

A FRAGMENT.

TO
'Tis night, the spectred hour is nigh!
Pensive I hear the moaning blast
Passing, with sad sepulchral sigh,
My lyre that hangs neglected by,
And seems to mourn for pleasures past !
That lyre was once attuned for thee
To many a lay of fond delight,
When all thy days were given to me,
And mine was every blissful night.
How oft I've languish'd by thy side,
And while my heart's luxuriant tide
Ran in wild riot through my veins,
I've waked such sweetly-maddening strains,
As if by inspiration's fire
My soul was blended with my lyre !
Oh! while in every fainting note
We heard the soul of passion float
While in thy blue dissolving glance,
I've raptured read thy bosom’s trance,
I've
sung

and trembled, kiss'd and sung;
Till, as we mingle breath with breath,
Thy burning kisses parch my tongue,
My hands drop listless on the lyre,
And, murmuring like a swan in death,
Upon thy bosom I expire !
Yes, I indeed remember well
Those hours of pleasure past and o er
Why have I lived their sweets to tell ?
To tell, but never feel them more!
I should have died, have sweetly died,
In one of those impassion'd dreams,
When languid, silent on thy breast,
Drinking thine eyes' delicious beams,
My soul has futter'd from its nest,
And on thy lip just parting sigh'd!
Oh! dying thus a death of love,
To heaven how dearly should I go!
He well might hope for joys above,
Who had begun them here below!

SONG.
When Time, who steals our years away,

Shall steal our pleasures too,
The memory of the past will stay,

And half our joys renew.
Then, Chloe, when thy beauty's flower

Shall feel the wintry air,
Remembrance will recall the hour

When thou alone wert fair!
Then talk no more of future gloom ;

Our joys shall always last;
For hope shall brighten days to come,

And memory gild the past.
Come, Chloe, fill the genial bowl,

I drink to love and thee: Thou never canst decay in soul,

Thou'lt still be young for me. And, as thy lips the tear-drop chase

Which on my cheek they find,
So hope shall steal away the trace

Which sorrow leaves behind !
Then fill the bowl-away with gloom!

Our joys shall always last ;
For hope shall brighten days to come,

And memory gild the past !
But mark, at thought of future years

When love shall lose its soul,
My Chloe drops her timid tears,

They mingle with my bowl!
How like this bowl of wine, my fair,

Our loving life shall fleet;
Though tears may sometimes mingle there,

The draught will still be sweet!
Then fill the bowl-away with gloom!

Our joys shall always last ;
For hope will brighten days to come,

And memory gild the past !

a

*

*

*

*

TO

SONG. WHERE is the nymph, whose azure eye

Can shine through rapture's tear? The sun has sunk, the moon is high,

Ang vet she comes not here!

My fates had destined me to rove
A long, long pilgrimage of love;
And many an altar on my way
Has lured my pious steps to stay ;
For, if the saint was young and fair,
I turn'd and sung my vespers there.

In agony of wild despair,

He started from the bed; And thus to his bewilder'd wife

The trembling Rupert said:
" Oh Isabel! dost thou not see

A shape of horrors here,
That strains me to the deadly kiss,

And keeps me from my dear ?** “No, no, my love! my Rupert, I

No shape of horror see;
And much I mourn the phantasy

That keeps my dear from me!" This night, just like the night before,

In terrors pass'd away,
Nor did the demon vanish thence

Before the dawn of day.
Says Rupert then, “My Isabel,

Dear partner of my woe,
To Father Austin's holy cave

This instant will I go.”
Now Austin was a reverend man,

Who acted wondrous maint,
Whom all the country round believed

A devil or a saint!

And as the gloomy train advanced,

Rupert beheld from far
A female form of wanton mien

Seated upon a car.
And Rupert, as he gazed upon

The loosely-vested dame,
Thought of the marble statue's look,

For hers was just the same.
Behind her walk'd a hideous form,

With eye-balls flashing death; Whene'er he breath'd, a sulphur'd smoke

Came burning in his breath!
He seem'd the first of all the crowd

Terrific towering o'er;
“Yes, yes,” said Rupert,“ this is he,

And I need ask no more."

a

Then slow he went, and to this fiend

The tablets trembling gave, Who look'd and read them with a yell

That would disturb the grave.

And when he saw the blood-scrawl'd name,

His eyes with fury shine; “ I thought,” cries he, “his time was out,

But he must soon be mine!”

To Father Austin's holy cave

Then Rupert went full straight, And told him all, and ask'd him how

To remedy his fate.

Then darting at the youth a look,

Which rent his soul with fear, He went unto the female fiend,

And whisper'd in her ear. The female fiend no sooner heari,

Than, with reluctant look, The very ring that Rupert lost

She from her finger took ;

The father heard the youth, and then

Retired awhile to pray ; And, having pray'd for half an hour,

Return'd, and thus did say:

And, giving it unto the youth,

With eyes that breath'd of hell, She said in that tremendous voice

Which he remember'd well :

Whether I waste my life in tears,

Or live, as now, for mirth and loving ! This day shall come with aspect kind,

Wherever Fate may cast your rover; He 'll think of those he left behind,

And drink a health to bliss that's over!

a

“In Austin's name take back the ring,

The ring thou gavest to me; And thou 'rt to me no longer wed,

Nor longer I to thee."

Then, oh! my friends, this hour improve,

Let 's feel as if we ne'er could sever; And may the birth of her we love

Be thus with joy remember'd ever!

He took the ring, the rabble pass’d,

He home return'd again ; His wife was then the happiest fair,

The happiest he of men.

SONG.

ON THE BIRTH-DAY OF MRS.

WRITTEN IN IRELAND. Of all my happiest hours of joy,

And even I have had my measure, When hearts were full and every eye

Has kindled with the beams of pleasure !

Such hours as this I ne'er was given,

So dear to friendship, so dear to blisses ; Young Love himself looks down from heaven,

To smile on such a day as this is !
Then, oh! my friends, this hour improve,

Let's feel as if we ne'er could sever!
And may the birth of her we love

Be thus with joy remember'd ever! Oh! banish every thought to-night,

Which could disturb our souls' communion! Abandon'd thus to dear delight,

We'll e'en for once forget the Union ! On that let statesmen try their powers,

And tremble o'er the rights they 'd die for; The union of the soul be ours,

And every union else we sigh for!

TO A BOY, WITH A WATCH.

WRITTEN FOR A FRIEND. Is it not sweet, beloved youth,

To rove through erudition's bowers, And cull the golden fruits of truth,

And gather fancy's brilliant flowers ? And is it not more sweet than this

To feel thy parents' hearts approving, And pay them back in sums of bliss

The dear, the endless debt of loving?
It must be so to thee, my youth;

With this idea toil is lighter;
This sweetens all the fruits of truth,

And makes the flowers of fancy brighter! The little gift we send thee, boy,

May sometimes teach thy soul to ponder If indolence or syren joy

Should ever tempt that soul to wander. 'T will tell thee that the winged day

Can ne'er be chain'd by man's endeavour ; That life and time shall fade away,

While heaven and virtue bloom for ever!

Then, oh! my friends, this hour improve,

Let's feel as if we ne'er could sever; And may the birth of her we love

Be thus with joy remember'd ever! In every eye around I mark

The feelings of the heart o’erflowing, From every soul I catch the spark

Of sympathy in friendship glowing ! Oh! could such moments ever fly:

Oh! that we ne'er were doom'd to lose 'em; And all as bright as Charlotte's eye,

And all as pure as Charlotte's bosom. But oh! my friends, this hour improve,

Let's feel as if we ne'er could sever; And may the birth of her we love

Be thus with joy remember'd ever! For me, whate'er my span of years,

Whatever sun may light my roving ;

Mark those proud boasters of a splendid line,
Like gilded ruins, mouldering while they shine,

How heavy sits that weight of alien show,
Like martial helm upon an infant's brow;
Those borrow'd splendours, whose contrasting light
Throws back the native shades in deeper night.

Ask the proud train who glory's shade pursue,
Where are the arts by which that glory grew ?
The genuine virtues that with eagle gaze
Sought young Renown in all her orient blaze?
Where is the heart by chymic truth refined,
The exploring soul, whose eye had read mankind ?
Where are the links that twined with heavenly art,
His country's interest round the patriot's heart ?
Where is the tongue that scatter'd words of fire ?
The spirit breathing through the poet's lyre?

Do these descend with all that tide of fame
Which vainly waters an unfruitful name?