Oh! while in every fainting note
We heard the soul of passion float;
While in thy blue dissolving glance,
I've raptured read thy bosom's trance,
I've sung and trembled, kiss'd and sung ;
Till, as we mingle breath with breath,
Thy burning kisses parch my tongue,
My hands drop listless on the lyre,
And, murmuring like a swan in death,
Upon thy bosom I expire!

Yes, I indeed remember well

Those hours of pleasure past and o'er ;
Why have I lived their sweets to tell?
To tell, but never feel them more !
I should have died, have sweetly died,
In one of those impassion'd dreams,
When languid, silent on thy breast,
Drinking thine eyes' delicious beams,
My soul has flutter'd from its nest,
And on thy lip just parting sigh'd!
Oh! dying thus a death of love,
To Heaven how dearly should I go !
He well might hope for joys above,
Who had begun them here below!

SONG.

WHERE is the nymph, whose azure eye
Can shine through rapture's tear?
The sun has sunk, the moon is high,
And yet she comes not here!

Was that her footstep on the hill—
Her voice upon the gale?—

No; 'twas the wind, and all is still :
Oh, maid of Marlivale !

Come to me, love, I've wander❜d far,
'Tis past the promised hour;
Come to me, love, the twilight star
Shall guide thee to my bower.

SONG.

WHEN Time, who steals our years away,

Shall steal our pleasures too,

The memory of the past will stay,

And half our joys renew.

Then, Chloe, when thy beauty's flower

Shall feel the wintry air,

Remembrance will recal the hour

When thou alone wert fair!

Then talk no more of future gloom;
Our joys shall always last;

For hope shall brighten days to come,
And memory gild the past!

Come, Chloe, fill the genial bowl,
I drink to love and thee :

Thou never canst decay in soul,

Thou'lt still be young

for me.

And, as thy lips the tear-drop chase
Which on my cheek they find,
So hope shall steal away the trace
Which sorrow leaves behind!

Then fill the bowl-away with gloom!

Our joys shall always last;

For hope shall brighten days to come,
And memory gild the past!

But mark, at thought of future years
When love shall lose its soul,

VOL. VII.

14

My Chloe drops her timid tears,

They mingle with my bowl!

How like this bowl of wine, my fair,
Our loving life shall fleet;

Though tears may sometimes mingle there,

The draught will still be sweet!

Then fill the bowl-away with gloom!

Our joys shall always last;

For hope will brighten days to come,
And memory gild the past!

THE SHRINE.

ΤΟ

My fates had destined me to rove
A long, long pilgrimage of love;
And many an altar on my way
Has lured my pious steps to stay;
For, if the saint was young and fair,
I turn'd and sung my vespers there.
This, from a youthful pilgrim's fire,
Is what your pretty saints require :

To pass, nor tell a single bead,

With them would be profane indeed!
But, trust me, all this young devotion
Was but to keep my zeal in motion;
And, every humbler altar past,

I now have reach'd THE SHRINE at last!

REUBEN AND ROSE.

A TALE OF ROMANCE.

THE darkness which hung upon Willumberg's walls Has long been remember'd with awe and dismay!

For years not a sunbeam had play'd in its halls, And it seem'd as shut out from the regions of

day;

Though the valleys were brighten'd by many a beam,

Yet none could the woods of the castle illume; And the lightning which flash'd on the neighbouring stream,

Flew back, as if fearing to enter the gloom!