And I will say—her cheeks of flame,
Which glow like roses in the sun,
Have never felt a blush of shame,

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?

MIRACLES OF BEAUTY.

Thro' midnight glooms, my Julia stray'd; Her ebon locks around her play'd;

So dark they wav'd, so black they curl'd, Another night o'erspread the world.

The Moon arose, and Julia's face
Resplendent shone, with every grace ;
It gleam'd so fair, it beam'd so bright,
Another Moon illum'd the night.

TO A LADY,

With the print of Venus attired by the Graces.

BY THE HON. G

NR.

That far superior is thy state,

Even envy must agree :

On thee, a thousand Graces wait;

On Venus, only three.

TO CHLOE.

I prithee, send me back my heart,
Since you refuse me thine;

For if, from your's, you will not part,
Why should you fetter mine?

Yet, now I think on't, let it lie;
To send it me, were vain!
For, there's a thief, in either eye,
Would steal it back again.

THE LOVER'S MORNING SALUTE TO HIS MISTRESS.

BY BURNS.

Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature;

Rosy morn now lifts his eye,

Numbering ilka bud which Nature

Waters wi' the tears o' joy :

Now, thro' the leafy woods,

And by the reeking floods,

Wild Nature's tenants, freely, gladly stray;

The lintwhite in his bower

Chants o'er the breathing flower;

The lav'rock to the sky

Ascends wi' sangs o' joy,

While the sun and thou arise to bless the day.

Phoebus, gilding the brow o'morning,
Banishes ilk darksome shade,

Nature gladdening and adorning;

Such to me, my lovely maid,
When absent frae my fair,

The murky shades o' care

With starless gloom o'ercast my sullen sky;

But when, in beauty's light,

She meets my ravish'd sight,

When through my very heart

Her beaming glories dart,

"Tis then I wake to life, to light, and joy.

IMPROMPTU.

Written under a Picture of the Countess of Sandwich, drawn in Man's Habit.

BY LORD LANSDOWNE.

When Sandwich, in her sex's garb, we see,

The Queen of Beauty, then, she seems to be:
Now fair Adonis, in this male disguise;
Or little Cupid, with his mother's eyes.

No style of Empire chang'd by this remove,

Who seem'd the Goddess, seems the God of Love.

LOVE.

BY SIR GEORGE LYTTELTON.

None, without hope, e'er lov'd the brightest fair; But love can hope, where reason can despair.

A RING PRESENTED TO JULIA.

BY HERRICK.

Julia, I bring

To thee this ring,
Made for thy finger fit

To shew, by this,

That our love is

(Or should be) like to it.

Close though it be,

The joint is free :

So, when Love's yoke is on,

It must not gall,

Or fret at all,

With hard oppression.

But, it must play

Still either way;

And be, too, such a yoke,

As not too wide,

To over-slide,

Or be so strait, to choak.

So we, who bear

This beam, must rear
Ourselves to such a height :

As that the stay

Of either may

Create the burden light.

And as this round

Is no where found

To flaw, or else to sever,

So let our love

As endless prove,

And pure as gold for ever.

TO MISS LUCY FORTESCUE, WITH A NEW

WATCH.

BY LORD LYTTELTON.

With me while present, may thy lovely eyes
Be never turn'd upon this golden toy ;
Think every pleasing hour too swiftly flies,
And measure time by joy succeeding joy.

But, when the cares that interrupt our bliss,
To me not always will thy sight allow ;
Then oft', with kind impatience, look on this;
Then, every minute count as I do now.

ON LADY MARGARET FORDYCE.

BY R. B. SHERIDAN.

Mark'd you her eye, of sparkling blue ?
Mark'd you her cheek, of rosy hue ?
That eye, in liquid circles moving;

That cheek, abash'd at man's approving;