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E’en your own soft enticing measure
Has left poor me, and flows for Pleasure."

“ Cease your upbraidings,” cries the Muse :
“ An ear at least you can't refuse:
I'll answer you for all the Nine;
The few who bow at Virtue's shrine
Are better pleased with artless praise
Than all the force of studied lays.
The page of silver-flowing rhyme
May hide a fault, or gild a crime;
But you, and those who choose your part,
Require the language of the heart;
And such will smile and read with pleasure,
If 'tis sincere, a doggerel measure;
Though only on the page they view
Congratulation-and Adieu !"



SWEET spot, whose real joy excels

What Fancy's pencil ever drew,
Where Innocence with Pleasure dwells,
And Peace with Poverty-adieu !

If perfect bliss resides on earth,
Here lies the spot that gives it birth.

And you, whose presence throws a gleam

Of pleasure o’er the poor man's lot,
Who well to Fancy's eye might seem
The Genii of the peaceful spot,

Fond Memory oft will bring to view
The welcome that we found with you.

It is not yours in hall or bower

The semblance of a smile to wear; But yours it is, in sorrow's hour, To stop the sufferer's falling tear : Nor yours the fleeting, vain reward That earthly power and pomp award.

From pomp and power men are riven

At every change of Fortune's will;

One purer bliss to you is given,
A heart that acts not, thinks not, ill.

The tyrant well for such a gein
Might quit his blood-bought diadem.

But we must part at length; 'tis sad

Upon such scenes as these to dwell,
Since scenes like these can only add
New sorrow to our long farewell:

Pure was our happiness—no more!
We part; that happiness is o'er.

We go; but we shall not forget

Those symptoms of a friendly heart,
The smile you wore because we met,
The tear you shed because we part;

And Hope already paints how sweet
The hour when we again shall meet.



When thy sad master's far away,

Go, happier far than he,–
Go, little flower, with her to stay

With whom he may not be;
There bid her mourn his wayward lot,
And whisper still, “Forget me not !"

Sweet as the gale of fate, that blew

To waft me to a spot like this,-
Frail as the hours, that quickly flew

To tear me from the transient bliss,-
Thy humble blossoms long shall prove

An emblem fit for parted love. (1817.)



Woman! thou loveliest gift that here below
Man can receive, or Providence bestow!
To thee the earliest offerings belong
Of opening eloquence, or youthfuil song;
Lovely partaker of our dearest joys !
Thyself a gift whose pleasure never cloys,-
Whose wished for presence gently can appease
The wounds of penury, or slow disease, -
Whose loss is such, as through life's tedious way
No rank can compensate, no wealth repay;
Thy figure beams a ray of heavenly light
To cheer the darkness of our earthly night:
Hail, fair Enslaver! at thy changing glance
Boldness recedes, and timid hearts advance,
Monarchs forget their sceptre and their sway,
And sages melt in tenderness away,

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