Dost love sweet Hyacinth? Its scented leaf Curls manifold,-all love's delights blow double : 'Tis said this flow'ret is inscribed with grief,— But let that hint of a forgotten trouble.

I pluck'd the Primrose at night's dewy noon; Like Hope, it show'd its blossoms in the night; 'Twas, like Endymion, watching for the Moon! And here are Sun-flowers, amorous of light!

These golden Buttercups are April's seal,-
The Daisy stars her constellations be:
These grew so lowly, I was forced to kneel,
Therefore I pluck no Daisies but for thee!

Here's Daisies for the morn, Primrose for gloom,
Pansies and Roses for the noontide hours:-
A wight once made a dial of their bloom,—
So may thy life be measured out by flow'rs!

THE FORSAKEN.

THE dead are in their silent graves,

And the dew is cold above,

And the living weep and sigh,

Over dust that once was love.

Once I only wept the dead,

But now the living cause my pain :

How couldst thou steal me from my tears, To leave me to my tears again?

My mother rests beneath the sod,-
Her rest is calm and very deep:

I wish'd that she could see our loves,-
But now I gladden in her sleep.

Last night unbound my raven locks, The morning saw them turn'd to gray, Once they were black and well beloved, But thou art changed-and so are they!

The useless lock I gave thee once,
To gaze upon and think of me,

Was ta'en with smiles,-but this was torn

In sorrow that I send to thee!

AUTUMN.

THE Autumn is old,
The sere leaves are flying;-
He hath gather'd up gold,
And now he is dying;

Old age, begin sighing!

The vintage is ripe,
The harvest is heaping;

But some that have sow'd
Have no riches for reaping ;-
Poor wretch, fall a weeping!"

The year's in the wane,
There is nothing adorning,

The night has no eve,

And the day has no morning ;

Cold winter gives warning.

The rivers run chill,

The red sun is sinking,

And I am grown old,

And life is fast shrinking;

Here's enow for sad thinking!

ODE TO MELANCHOLY.

COME, let us set our careful breasts,
Like Philomel, against the thorn,
To aggravate the inward grief,
That makes her accents so forlorn;
The world has many cruel points,
Whereby our bosoms have been torn,
And there are dainty themes of grief,
In sadness to outlast the morn,—
True honour's dearth, affection's death,
Neglectful pride, and cankering scorn,
With all the piteous tales that tears
Have water'd since the world was born.

The world!-it is a wilderness,

Where tears are hung on every tree;

For thus my gloomy phantasy

Makes all things weep with me!

Come let us sit and watch the sky,
And fancy clouds, where no clouds be;
Grief is enough to blot the eye,
And make heaven black with misery.
Why should birds sing such merry notes,
Unless they were more blest than we?
No sorrow ever chokes their throats,

Except sweet nightingale; for she
Was born to pain our hearts the more
With her sad melody.

Why shines the sun, except that he
Makes gloomy nooks for Grief to hide,
And pensive shades for Melancholy,
When all the earth is bright beside?

Let clay wear smiles, and green grass wave,
Mirth shall not win us back again,

Whilst man is made of his own grave,
And fairest clouds but gilded rain!

I saw my mother in her shroud,
Her cheek was cold and very pale;
And ever since I've look'd on all
As creatures doom'd to fail!
Why do buds ope, except to die?
Ay, let us watch the roses wither,
And think of our loves' cheeks;
And oh, how quickly time doth fly
To bring death's winter hither!
Minutes, hours, days, and weeks,
Months, years, and ages, shrink to nought;
An age past is but a thought!

Ay, let us think of Him a while,
That, with a coffin for a boat,
Rows daily o'er the Stygian moat,
And for our table choose a tomb: