These might the boldest sylph appal, When gleaming with meridian blaze; hy beauty must enrapture all;

But who can dare thine ardent gaze?

'Tis said that Berenice's hair

In stars adorns the vault of heaven;
But they would ne'er permit thee there,
Thou wouldst so far outshine the seven.

For did those eyes as planets roll,

Thy sister-lights would scarce appear: E'en suns, which systems now control,

Would twinkle dimly through their sphere. (1)

1806.

TO WOMAN

WOMAN! experience might have told me
That all must love thee who behold thee.
Surely experience might have taught
Thy firmest promises are nought;
But, placed in all thy charms before me,
All I forget, but to adore thee.

Oh memory! thou choicest blessing

When join'd with hope, when still possessing; But how much cursed by every lover

When hope is fled and passion's over.

(1) "Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do intreat her eyes

To twinkle in their spheres till they return."-SHAKSP.

Woman, that fair and fond deceiver,
How prompt are striplings to believe her!
How throbs the pulse when first we view
The eye that rolls in glossy blue,
Or sparkles black, or mildly throws
A beam from under hazel brows!
How quick we credit every oath,
And hear her plight the willing troth!
Fondly we hope 'twill last for aye,
When, lo! she changes in a day.
This record will for ever stand,
"Woman, thy vows are traced in sand.”(1)

TO M. S. G.

WHEN I dream that you love me, you'll surely forgive;
Extend not your anger to sleep;

For in visions alone your affection can live,—
I rise, and it leaves me to weep.

Then, Morpheus! envelope my faculties fast,

Shed o'er me your languor benign;

Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last, What rapture celestial is mine!

They tell us that slumber, the sister of death,

Mortality's emblem is given;

To fate how I long to resign my frail breath,
If this be a foretaste of heaven!

(1) The last line is almost a literal translation from a Spanish proverb.

Ah! frown not, sweet lady, unbend your soft brow,
Nor deem me too happy in this;

If I sin in my dream, I atone for it now,
Thus doom'd but to gaze upon bliss.

Though in visions, sweet lady, perhaps you may smile, Oh! think not my penance deficient !

When dreams of your presence my slumbers beguile, To awake will be torture sufficient.

TO MARY,

ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE. (1)

THIS faint resemblance of thy charms,
Though strong as mortal art could give,
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.

(1) Of this "Mary," who is not to be confounded with the heiress of Annesley, or "Mary" of Aberdeen, all that has been ascertained is, that she was of an humble, if not equivocal, station in life, and that she had long light golden hair, " of which," says Moore," he used to show a lock, as well as her picture, among his friends."- E.

Here I behold its beauteous hue;

But where's the beam so sweetly straying (1) 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.

Through hours, through years, through time, 'twill cheer;

My hope, in gloomy moments, raise;

In life's last conflict 'twill 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,

(1) In the private volume

but yet I know not.

But where's the beam of soft desire ?

Which gave a lustre to its blue,

Love, only love, could e'er inspire. — E.

Your polish'd 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 ended-
My 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 unimpair'd,
New beauties still are daily bright'ning,