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ON HER ASKING THE AUTHOR WHY SHE HAD
SLEEPLESS NIGHTS.

I'LL ask the sylph who round thee flies,
And in thy breath his pinion dips,
Who suns him in thy radiant eyes,
And faints upon thy sighing lips:

I'll ask him where's the veil of sleep
That us'd to shade thy looks of light,
And why those eyes their vigil keep,

When other suns are sunk in night?

And I will say her angel breast

Has never throbb'd with guilty sting;
Her bosom is the sweetest nest

Where Slumber could repose his wing!
And I will say her cheeks that flush,
Like vernal roses in the sun,
Have ne'er by shame been taught to blush,
Except for what her eyes have done!

Then tell me, why, thou child of air!
Does slumber from her eyelids rove?
What is her heart's impassion'd care?
Perhaps, oh sylph! perhaps, 'tis love.

THE WONDER.

COME. tell me where the maid is found,
Whose heart can love without deceit,
And I will range the world around,
To sigh one moment at her feet.

Oh! tell me where's her sainted home,
What air receives her blessed sigh,

A pilgrimage of years I'll roam
Tc cat h one sparkle of her eye!

And if her cheek be smooth and bright,
While truth within her bosom lies,

I'll gaze upon her morn and night,

Till my heart leave me through my eyes.

Show me on earth a thing so rare,
I'll own all miracles are true;
To make one maid sincere and fair,
Oh, 'tis the utmost Heaven can do!

LYING.

I DO Contess, in many a sigh,
My lips have breath'd you many a lie;
And who, with such delights in view,
Would lose them, for a lie or two?

Nay, look not thus, with brow reproving;
Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving.
If half we tell the girls were true,
If haif we swear to think and do,
Were aught but lying's bright illusion,
This world would be in strange confusion
If ladies' eyes were, every one,
As lovers swear, a radiant sun,
Astronomy must leave the skies,
To learn her lore in ladies' eyes
Oh, no-believe me, lovely girl,
When nature turns your teeth to pearl,
Your neck to snow, your eyes to fire,
Your amber locks to golden wire,
Then, only then can Heaven decree,
That you should live for only me,
Or I for you, as night and morn,
We've swearing kist, and kissing sworn

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"Then love the Lamp-'twill often lead "Thy step through learning's sacred way "And when those studious eyes shall read. "At midnight, by its lonely ray,

"Of things sublime, of nature's birth, "Of all that's bright in heaven or earth, "Oh, think that she, by whom 'twas given, "Adores thee more than earth or heaven!"

Yes dearest Lamp, by every charm

On which thy midnight beam has hung; The head reclin'd, the graceful arm Across the brow of ivory flung;

The heaving bosom, partly hid,

The sever'd lip's unconscious sighs, The fringe that from the half-shut id Adown the cheek of roses lies:

By these, by all that bloom untold,

And long as all shall charm my heart,
I'll love my little Lamp of gold-
My Lamp and I shall never part.
And often, as she smiling said,

In fancy's hour, thy gentle rays
Shall guide my visionary tread

Through poesy's enchanting maze.
Thy flame shall light the page refin'd,
Where still we catch the Chian's breath,
Where still the bard, though cold in death,
Has left his soul unquench'd behind.
Or, o'er thy humbler legend shine,

Oh man of Ascra's dreary glades!
To whom the nightly warbling Nine
A wand of inspiration gave,
Pluck'd from the greenest tree, that shades
The crystal of Castalia's wave

Then, turning to a purer lore,
We'll cull the sages' deep-hid store;
From Science steal her golden clue,
And every mystic path pursue,
Where Nature, far from vulgar eyes,
Through abyrinths of wonder flies.
'Tis thus my heart shall learn to know
How fleeting is this world below,
Where all that meets the morning light,
Is chang'd before the fall of night!

I'll tell thee, as I trim thy fire,

"Swift, swift the tide of being runs, "And Time, who bids thy flame expire, "Will also quench yon heaven of sung."

Oh, then if earth's united power
Can never chain one feathery hour;
If every print we leave to-day
To-morrow's wave will sweep away;

Who pauses to inquire of heaven
Why were the fleeting treasures given,
The sunny days, the shady nights,
And all their brief but dear delights,
Which heaven has made for man to use,
And man should think it crime to lose?
Who that has cull'd a fresh-blown rose
Will ask it why it breathes and glows,
Unmindful of the blushing ray,
In which it shines its soul away;
Unmindful of the scented sigh,
With which it dies and loves to die.
Pleasure, thou only good on earth!
One precious moment giv'n to thee-
Oh! by my Lais' lip, 'tis worth
The sage's immortality.

Then far be all the wisdom hence,

That would our joys one hour delay!
Alas, the feast of soul and sense

Love calls us to in youth's bright day,
If not soon tasted, fleets away.

Ne'er wert thon form'd, my Lamp, to shed
Thy splendour on a lifeless page ;-
Whate'er my blushing Lais said

Of thoughtful lore and studies sage, Twas mockery all-her glance of joy Told me thy dearest, best employ.

And, soon as night shall close the eye

Of heaven's young wanderer in the west;

When seers are gazing on the sky,

To find their future orbs of rest;
Then shall I take my trembling way,
Unseen but to those worlds above,
And, led by thy mysterious ray,
Steal to the night-bower of my love

TO ROSA.

LIKE one who trusts to summer skies,
And puts his little bark to sea,
Is he who, lur'd by smiling eyes,
Consigns his simple heart to thee.

For fickle is the summer wind,

And sadly may the bark be tost; For thou art sure to change thy mind, And then the wretched heart is lost!

WRITTEN IN A COMMONPLACE BOOK.

THIS tribute's from a wretched elf,
Who hails thee, emblem of himself.
The book of life, which I have trac'd,
Has been, like thee, a motley waste
Of follies scribbled o'er and o'er,
One folly bringing hundreds more.
Some have indeed been writ so neat,
In characters so fair, so sweet,
That those who judge not too severely,
Have said they lov'd such follies dearly:
Yet, still, O book! the illusion stands;
For these were penn'd by female hands:
The rest-alas! I own the truth-
Have all been scribbled so uncouth
The Prudence, with a with'ring look,
Disdainful, flings away the book.
Like thine, its pages here and there
Have oft been stain'd with blots of care;
And sometimes hours of peace, I own,
Upon some fairer leaves have shown,
White as the snowings of that heav'n
By which those hours of peace were given.
But now no longer-such, oh, such
The blas. of Disappointment's touch!-
No longer now those hours appear;
Each leaf is sullied by a tear:
Blank, blank is every page with care,
Not ev❜n a folly brightens there.

Will they yet brighten?-never, never!
Then shut the book, O God, for ever!

LIGHT SOUNDS THE HARP.

LIGHT sounds the harp when the combat is over, When heroes are resting, and joy is in bloom; When laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover, And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume But, when the foe returns,

Again the hero burns;

High flames the sword in his hand once more
The clang of mingling arms

Is then the sound tha: charms,
And brazen notes of war, that stirring trumpets pour;-
Then, again comes the Harp, when the combat is over-
When heroes are resting, and Joy is in bloom-
When laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover,
And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume.

Light went the harp when the War-God, reclining,
Lay lull'd on the white arm of Beauty to rest,
When round his rich armour the myrtle hung twining,
And flights of young doves made his helmet their nest
But, when the battle came,

The hero's eye breath'd flame:
Soon from his neck the white arm was flung;
While, to his wak'ning ear,

No other sounds were dear

But brazen notes of war, by thousand trumpets sung.
But then came the light harp, when danger was ended,
And Beauty once more lull'd the War-God to rest;
When tresses of gold with his laurels lay blended,
And flights of young doves made his helmet .heir nest

FROM THE GREEK OF MELEAGER

FILL high the cup with liquid flame,
And speak my Heliodora's name
Repeat its magic o'er and o'er,
And let the sound my lips adore,
Live in the breeze, till every tone,
And word, and breath, speaks her alone.

Give me the wreath that withers there,
It was but last delicious night,

It circled her luxuriant hair,

And caught her eyes' reflected light. Oh! haste, and twine it round my brow: 'Tis all of her that's left me now. And see each rosebud drops a tear, To find the nymph no longer hereNo longer, where such heavenly charms As hers should be-within these arms.

THE RING.

No-Lady! Lady! keep the ring:
Oh! think, how many a future year,
Of placid smile and downy wing,
May sleep within its holy sphere.

Do not disturb their tranquil dream,
Though love hath ne'er the myst`ry warm'd;
Yet heav'n will shed a soothing beam,
To bless the bond itself hath form'd.

But then, that eye that burning eye,—
Oh! it doth ask, with witching power,
If heaven can ever bless the tie
Where love inwreaths no genial flower.

Away, away, bewildering look,
Or all the boast of virtue's o'er;
Go-hie thee to the sage's book,

And learn from him to feel no more

I cannot warn thee; every touch,
That brings my pulses close to thine,
Tells me I want thy aid as much-

Ev'n more, alas, than thou dost mine.

Yet, stay,-one hope, one effort yet-
A moment turn those eyes away,
And let me, if I can, forget
The light that leads my soul astray

Thou say'st, that we were born to meet, That our hearts bear one common seal;Think, Lady, think, how man's deceit

Can seem to sigh and feign to feel.

When, o'er thy face some gleam of thought,
Like daybeams through the morning air,
Hath gradual stole, and I have caught
The feeling ere it kindled there

The sympathy I then betray'd,

Perhaps was but the child of art,
The guile of one, who long hath play'd
With all these wily nets of heart.
Oh! thine is not my earliest vow;

Though few the years I yet have told,
Canst thou believe I've liv'd till now,
With loveless heart or senses cold?
No-other nymphs to joy and pain

This wild and wandering heart hath mov'd;
With some it sported, wild and vain,
While some it dearly, truly, lov'd.

The cheek to thine I fondly lay,

To theirs hath been as fondly laid; The words to thee I warmly say,

To them have been as warmly said.

Then, scorn at once a worthless heart,
Worthless alike, or fix'd or free;
Think of the pure, bright soul thou art,
And-love not me, oh love not me.

Enough-now, turn thine eyes again;
What, still that look and still that sigh!
Dost thou not feel my counsel then?
Oh no, beloved,-nor do I.

THE RESEMBLANCE.

YES, if 'twere my common love,
That led my pliant heart astray,
I grar.., there's not a power above,
Could wipe the faithless crime away.

But, 'twas my doom to err with one
In every look so like to thee
That, underneath yon blessed sun,

So fair there are but thou and she.

Both born of beauty, at a birth,

She held with thine a kindred sway, And wore the only shape on earth That could have lur'd my soul to stray,

Then blame me not, if false I be,

'Twas love that wak'd the fond excess; My heart had been more true to thee, Had mine eye priz'd thy beauty less.

TO THE INVISIBLE GIRL.

THE try to persuade me, my dear little sprite,
That your'e not a true daughter of ether and light,
Ny have any concern with those fanciful forms
That dance upon rainbows and ride upon storms;
That, in short, you're a woman; your lip and your eye
As mortal as ever drew gods from the sky.

But I will not believe them-no, Science, to you
I have long bid a last and a careless adieu:

Still flying from Nature to study her laws,
And dulling delight by exploring its cause,

You forget how superior, for mortals below,

Is the fiction they dream to the truth that they know
Oh! who, that has e'er enjoyed rapture complete,
Would ask how we feel it, or why it is sweet;
How rays are confus'd, or how particles fly
Through the medium refin'd of a glance or a sigh;

Is there one, who but once would not rather have known it,
Than written, with Harvey, whole volumes upon it?

As for you my sweet-voiced and invisible love, You must surely be one of those spirits that rove By the bank where, at twilight, the poet reelines, When the star of the west on his solitude shines, And the magical fingers of fancy have hung Every breeze with a sigh, every leaf with a tongue. Oh! hint to him then, 'tis retirement alone Can hallow his harp or ennoble its tone; Like you, with a veil of seclusion between, His song to the world let him utter unseen, And like you, a legitimate child of the spheres, Escape from the eye to enrapture the ears.

Sweet spirit of mystery! how I should love, In the wearisome ways I am fated to rove, To have you thus ever invisibly nigh,

Inhaling for ever your song and your sigh!
Mid the crowds of the world and the murmurs of care,
I might sometimes converse with my nymph of the air,
And turn with distaste from the clamorous crew,
To steal in the pauses one whisper from you.

Then come and be near me, for ever be mine, We shall hold in the air a communion divine As sweet as, of old, was imagin'd to dwell In the grotto of Numa, or Socrates' cell. And oft, at those lingering moments of night, When the heart's busy thoughts have put slumber to flight, You shall come to my pillow and tell me of love, Such as angel to angel might whisper above. Sweet spirit!-and then, could you borrow the tone Of that voice, to my ear like some fairy-song known, The voice of the one upon earth, who has twin'd With her being for ever my heart and my mind, Though lonely and far from the light of her smile, An exile, and weary and hopeless the while, Could you shed for a moment her voice on my ear, I will think, for that moment, that Cara is near; That she comes with consoling enchantment to speak, And kisses my eyelid and breathes on my cheek, And tells me, the night shall go rapidly by, For the dawn of our hope, of our heaven is nigh

Fair spirit! if such be your magical power, It will lighten the lapse of full many an hour; And, let fortune's realities frown as they will, Hope, fancy, and Cara may smile for me still.

TO MRS. BL——.

WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM.

THEY say that Love had once a book (The urchin likes to copy you,) Where, all who came, the pencil took, And wrote, like us, a line or two.

'Twas Innocence, the maid divine,
Who kept this volume bright and fair,
And saw that no unhallow'd line
Or thought profane should enter there;

And daily did the pages fill

With fond device and loving lore, And every leaf she turn'd was still More brig: han that she turn'd before

Beneath the t..ch of Hope, how soft,
How light the magic pencil ran!
Till Fear would come, alas, as oft,
And trembling close what Hope began.

A tear or two had dropp'd from Grief,
And Jealousy would, now and then,
Ruffle in haste some snow-white leaf,
Which Love had still to smooth again

But, ah! there came a blooming boy,
Who often turn'd the pages o'er,
And wrote therein such words of joy,
That all who read them sigh'd for more.

And Pleasure was this spirit's name,
And though so soft his voice and look,
Yet Innocence, whene'er he came,

Would tremble for her spotless book.

For, oft a Bacchant cup he bore,

With earth's sweet nectar sparkling bright,
And much she fear'd lest, mantling o'er,
Some drops should on the pages light.

And so it chanc'd, one luckless night,
The urchin let that goolet fall
O'er the fair book, so pure, so white,

And sullied lines and marge and all!

In vain now, touch'd with shame, he tried
To wash those fatal stains away;
Deep, deepad sunk the sullying tide,
The leaves grew darker every day.

And Fancy's sketches lost their hue,

And Hope's sweet lines were all effac'd, And Love himself now scarcely knew What love himself so lately trac❜d.

At length the urchin Pleasure fled,

(For how, alas! could Pleasure stay?) And Love, while many a tear he shed, Reluctant flung the book away.

The index now alone remains,

Of all the pages spoil'd by Pleasure, And though it bears some earthly stains, Yet Memory counts the leaf a treasure.

And oft, they say, she scans it o'er,

And oft, by this memorial aided, Brings back the pages now no more,

And thinks of lines that long have faded.

I know not if this tale be true,

But thus the simple facts are stated;

And I refer their truth to you,

Since Love and you are near related.

WRITTEN IN A LADY'S COMMONPLACE BOOK.

HERE is one leaf reserv'd for me,
From all thy sweet memorials free;
And here my simple song might tell
The feelings thou must guess so well.
But could I thus, within twy mind,
One little vacant corner find,
Where no impression yet is seen,
Where no memoria! yet hath been,
Oh! it should be my sweetest care
To write my name for ever there!

To

S SEEING HER WITH A WHITE VEIL AND A RICH GIRDLE

PUT off the vestal veil, nor oh!
Let weeping angels view it;
Your cheeks belie its virgin snow,
And blush repenting through it.

Put off the fatal zone you wear;
The shining pearls around it
Are tears, that fell from Virtue there,
The hour when Love unbound it.

A NIGHT THOUGHT.

How oft a cloud, with envious veil,
Obscures yon bashful light,
Which seems so modestly to steal
Along the waste of night!

'Tis thus the world's obtrusive wrongs
Obscure with malice keen
Some timid heart, which only longs
To live and die unseen

PEACE AND GLORY.

WHERE is now the smile, that lighten'd
Every hero's couch of rest?
Where is now the hope, that brighten'd
Honour's eye and Pity's breast?
Have we lost the wreath we braided
For our weary warrior men?
Is the faithless olive faded?
Must the bay be pluck'd again?

Passing hour of sunny weather
Lovely, in your light awile,
Peace and Glory, wed together,

Wander'd through our blessed isle.
And the eyes of Peace would glisten,
Dewy as a morning sun,

When the timid maid would listen
To the deeds her chief had done.

Is their hour of dalliance over?
Must the maiden's trembling feet
Waft her from her warlike lover

To the desert's still retreat?
Fare you well! with sighs we banish
Nymoh so fair and guests so bright;
Yet the mile, with which you vanish,
Leaves behind a soothing light;—

Soothing light, that long shall sparkle
O'er your warrior's sanguin'd way,
Through the field where horrors darkle,
Shedding hope's consoling ray.
Long the smile his heart will cherish,
To its absent idol true;
While around him myriads perish,
Glory still will sigh for you!

THE KISS.

GROW to my lip, thou sacred kiss,
On which my soul's beloved swore
That there should come a time of bliss,
When she would mock my hopes no more
And fancy shall thy glow renew,
In sighs at morn, and dreams at night.
And none shall steal thy holy dew
Till thou'rt absolv'd by rapture's rite.
Sweet hours that are to make me blest,
Fly, swift as breezes, to the goal,
And let my love, my more than soul
Come blushing to this ardent breast.
Then, while in every glance I drink
The rich o'erflowings of her mind,
Oh! let her all enamour'd sink
In sweet abandonment resign'd,
Blushing for all our struggles past,
And murmuring, "I am thine at last!"

TO A LADY, ON HER SINGING.

THY song has taught my heart to feel
Those soothing thoughts of heav'nly love,
Which o'er the sainted spirits steal
When list'ning to the spheres above!

When, tir'd of life and misery,
I wish to sigh my latest breath,
Oh, Emma! I will fly to thec,
And thou shalt sing me into death.

And if along thy lip and cheek

That smile of heav'nly softness play, Which,-ah! forgive a mind that's weak,— So oft has stol n my mind away;

Thou'lt seem an angel of the sky,

That comes to charm me into bliss: I'll gaze and die-Who would not die, If death were half so sweet as this?

NATIONAL AIRS,

BY

THOMAS MOORE.
Ꭱ Ꭼ

A TEMPLE TO FRIENDSHIP.

"A Temple to Friendship," said Laura, enchanted,
"I'll build in this garden-the thought is divine!"
Her temple was built, and she now only wanted
An image of Friendship to place on the shrine.
She flew to a sculptor, who set down before her
A Friendship, the fairest his art could invent;
bat so cold and so dull, that the youthful adorer
Saw plainly this was not the idol she meant.
"Oh! never," she cried, "could I think of enshrining
An image, whose looks are so joyless and dim;-
But yon little god, upon roses reclining,

We'll make, if you please, sir, a Friendship of him."
So the bargain was struck; with the little god laden
She joyfully flew to her shrine in the grove;
"Farewell," said the sculptor, "you're not the first maiden
Who came but for Friendship and took away Love."

FLOW ON, THOU SHINING RIVER.

FLOW on, thou shining river;

But, ere thou reach the sea, Seek Ella's bower, and give her The wreaths I fling o'er thee. And tell her thus, if she'll be mine, The current of our lives shall be, With joys along their course to shine, Like those sweet flowers on thee.

But if, in wand'ring thither,

Thou find'st she mocks my prayer, Then leave those wreaths to wither Upon the cold bank there; And tell her thus, when youth is o'er, Her lone and loveless charms shall b Thrown by upon life's weedy shore,

Like those sweet flowers from thee.

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All that's bright must fade-
The brightest still the fleetest;
All that's sweet was made

But to be lost when sweetest!
Who would seek or prize

Delights that end in aching? Who would trust to ties

That every hour are breaking? Better far to be

In utter darkness lying,

Than to be blessed with light and see That light for ever flying.

All that's bright must fade

The brightest still the fleetest;

All that's sweet was made

But to be lost when sweetest !

SO WARMLY WE MET.

So warmly we met and so fondly we parted,

That which was the sweeter even I could not tell-
That first look of welcome her sunny eyes darted,
Or that tear of passion, which blessed our farewell.
To meet was a heaven, and to part thus another-
Our joy and our sorrow seemed rivals in bliss;
Oh! Cupid's two eyes are not liker each other

In smiles and in tears, than that moment to this.
The first was like daybreak, new, sudden, delicious-
The dawn of a pleasure scarce kindled up yet;
The last like the farewell of daylight, more precious,
More glowing and deep, as 'tis nearer its set.
Our meeting, though happy, was tinged by a sorrow
To think that such happiness could not remain ;
While our parting, though sad, gave a hope that to-morrow
Would bring back the blest hour of meeting again.

THOSE EVENING BELLS

THOSE evening bells! those evening be.ls!
How many a tale their music tells,
Of youth, and home, and that sweet time,
When last I heard their soothing chime.
Those joyous hours are passed away;
And many a heart that then was gay,
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.
And so 'twill be when I am gone;
That tuneful peal will still ring on,
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells!

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