TO LAURA, No. 3.

OH! bliss ecstatic, bliss beyond compare,
To hear thy voice, and weave thy golden hair;
That falls o'er that pure brow divinely wrought,
The seat of Reason and the throne of Thought;
And loosely plays upon thy silken vest,
That hides from men that snowy sea-foam breast.
To feel that hand so delicately white,

Stray o'er my brow, gives my fond soul delight;
But most, ye gods! what bliss, to feel those beams
Of glory, which, from her fond blue eye, streams
Into my soul, that wake its every power,

And bid me live for ages in an hour.

TO LAURA, No 4.

My too fond heart when young and in its spring,
Was sway'd by passions, powerful, wild, and strong;
But words impress'd on sand, that last not long,
When mov'd by rushing winds, is emblem meet,
Of those wild passions, not more wild than fleet:
Like the wild waves, they rag'd themselves to rest,
And left my heart to joyance and to song;
Till love in after years, woke anguish in my breast,
What time I look'd on thee, the fair, the pure, the blest.

TO LAURA, No. 5.

I LOVE thee! oh! I love thee! dear, bright, beautiful,

and young,

Thou heavenly, spiritual one, thou sweet bright child of

song;

I love thee! how I love thee, oh! no angel hand can

paint,

For pencil dipp'd in sunbeams, still would give description faint.

I love thee! yet I dare not tell, my fond one that I love, Yet thou hast seen it in mine eye, when wandering in the

grove;

And I have mark'd in that blue eye, love's bright and

sunny ray,

Yet I without thy smile to cheer, must perish life away.
I love thee! yet my love can ne'er, be openly return'd,
The circumstance I did not form, for that must I be
spurn'd;

Thou lov'st me, and I know full well, by that oft tearful

eye,

Thou fain would'st share 'neath happier fates, thy fond one's destiny.

I love thee! and tho' sorrow preys, upon my troubled

breast,

Like the rude bird that living tears its life-strings from its breast;

Thy love's an oasis in life's waste, a green spot mid the sand,

Whereon my weary eye can rest, and bless thy bounteous hand.

U

TO LAURA, No. 6.

SWEET was the hour, to memory sweet,
When first I saw thy charms;
When first I sweetly breath'd my love,
And clasp'd thee in my arms.

And sweeter was that joyous hour,
When in love's music tone;

Thou sweetly whisperedst one fond word,
That thou wert mine alone.

I thought not then we e'er should part,
But share life's joy and pain;
I thought not hearts so fondly blent,
Could separate again.

But think not tho' afar from me,
Sweet peace thou'lt e'er possess ;
Like mine thy sorrowing life will fade,
In joyless loneliness.

Forget me! no! thou still wilt think,
Of blissful days gone by;
Thou canst not love another, no!

Our love can never die.

Ah! foolish words, that parted us,

Now, not to be forgiven;

Ah! foolish pride, that steels thy breast, And robs us of our heaven.

We've parted! well, thou hast not cull'd, "A rose without a thorn;"

We've parted! but thy bliss hath flown,

And both are now forlorn.

The hour of sorrow now is come,
And for the past you sigh;
You feel a desolate loneliness,
And proudly wish to die.

One word of pardon thou'lt not speak,
And pray'st but for the grave;
That thou may'st feel no more the lot,
Which sorrowing now I brave.

TO LAURA, No. 7.

WHATE'ER of beauty I behold,
The young, the fair, the free;
I think of one whose locks of gold,
Wave o'er her brow of snow;
Whose blue eyes softer glow,
Than summer skies,

Whose balmy sighs,

Are soft as southern breezes blow:
Whate'er of beauty I behold,

The young, the fair, the free,
Laura, I think of thee.

I watch the summer flower,
I watch the midnight star;
The perfume-breathing shower,
The crystal rippling stream;
I watch till straight I dream,

I see thine image in the perfum'd flower;

I see thee in the scintillating star;

I hear thy voice in the music-dropping rain,

And in the tinkling streams, that gush a silvery strain:
Whate'er of beauty I behold,

The bright, the fair, the free,
Laura, I think of thee.

At noon of night and day,

Within some verdant grove;

At the blushing time of morning ray,

And at the dewy eve,

I pour my 'plaint and grieve,

And sigh for thee and love;

And fancy paints thee near the glowing skies, All bright and fair before my ravish'd eyes; Thy face all beaming with thy generous soul, And every feature with some thought doth glow;

I strive to grasp thy hand, and press thy brow of snow,

And then the vision melts, and clouds of sadness roll.

Whate'er of beauty I behold,