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Oh, Huon! when my brow sat cloudy oft O'er my cold eye, that look'd askant at thee, Thou little thought what friend there was

within Would make that brow clear as a summer

sky, That eye, bright glowing as a summer's sun, To kindle thee-as they, their world, with


And health, and wealth, and gladness.



Of all flowers,
Methinks the Rose is best.
It is the very emblem of a maid:
For, when the west wind courts her gently,
How modestly she blows and paints the sun
With her chaste blushes ! When the north

comes near her,
Rude and impatient, then, like Chastity,
She locks her beauties in her bud again,
And leaves him to base briers.




She dwelt among the untrodden ways

Beside the springs of Dove, A maid, whom there were none to praise,

And very few to love :

A violet by a mossy stone

Half hidden from the eye! Fair as a star, when only one

Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown,-and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be:
But she is in her grave, and, oh!

The difference to me!


SONNET. Go, Valentine, and tell that lovely maid Whom fancy still will portray to my sight, How here I linger in this sullen shade, This dreary gloom of dull monastic night. Say, that, from ev'ry joy of life remote, At evening's closing hour I quit the throng, Listening in solitude the ring-dove's note Who pours like me, her solitary song. Say, that her absence calls the sorrowing

sigh, Say, that of all her charms I love to speak, In fancy feel the magic of her eye, In fancy view the smile illume her cheek, Court the lone hour when silence stills the

grove, And heave the sigh of Memory and of Love.


Go, lovely Rose !
Tell her that wastes her time and me,

That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,
And shuns to have her graces spy'd,

That hadst thou sprung
In desarts where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended dy'd.

Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retir'd:

Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desir'd,
And not blush so to be admir’d.

Then die ! that she
The common fate of all things rare

May read in thee;
How small a part of time they share,
That are so wondrous sweet and fair!



When lovely woman stoops to folly,

And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy?

What art can wash her guilt away ?

The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover,

And wring his bosom ismto die.



Love is a plant of holier birth
Than any that takes its root on earth;
A flower from heaven, which 't is a crime
To number with the things of time;
Hope in the bud is often blasted,
And beauty on the desert wasted;
And joy, a primrose early, gay,
Care's lightest foot-falls treads away.
But love shall live, and live for ever,
And chance and change shall reach it never;
Can hearts in which true love is plighted
By want or woe be disunited ?
Ah no! like buds on one stem born,
They share between them e'en the thorn,

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