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"The minuet was the favourite dance,
I'd rather see that magic face,
To cure its griefs, and drown its cares, By leaping gates, and murdering hares, Nor to confine that feeling soul, To winning lovers—or the vole.
If these, and such pursuits are thine, Julia ! thou art no friend of mine! I love plain dress—I eat plain joints, I cannot play ten guinea points, I make no study of a pin, And hate a female whipper-in.
LINES TO FLORENCE.
Long years have pass’d with silent pace,
Florence ! since you and I have met ; Yet—when that meeting I retrace,
My cheek is pale, my eye is wet; For I was doom'd from thence to rove,
O’er distant tracts of earth and sea, Unaided, Florence !- save by love;
And unremember'd-save by thee ! We met! and hope beguiled our fears,
Hope, ever bright, and ever vain ; We parted thence in silent tears,
Never to meet—in life—again. The myrtle that I gaze upon,
Sad token by thy love devised, Is all the record left of one
So long bewail'd—so dearly prized. You gave it in an hour of grief,
When gifts of love are doubly dear ; You gave it—and one tender leaf
Glisten’d the while with Beauty's tear.
A tear-oh! lovelier far to me,
Shed for me in my saddest hour, Than bright and flattering smiles could be,
In courtly hall, or summer bower, You strove my anguish to beguile,
With distant hopes of future weal ; You strove !-alas! you could not smile,
Nor speak the hope you did not feel. I bore the gift Affection gave,
O'er desert sand and thorny brake, O’er rugged rock and stormy wave,
I loved it for the giver's sake ; And often in my happiest day,
In scenes of bliss and hours of pride, When all around was glad and gay,
I look'd upon the gift—and sigh’d: And when on ocean, or on clift,
Forth strode the Spirit of the Storm, I gazed upon thy fading gift,
I thought upon thy fading form ; Forgot the lightning's vivid dart,
Forgot the rage of sky and sea, Forgot the doom that bade us part
And only lived to love and thee.
Florence! thy myrtle blooms! but thou,
Beneath thy cold and lowly stone, Forgetful of our mutual vow,
And of a heart-still all thine own, Art laid in that unconscious sleep,
Which he that wails thee soon must know, Where none may smile, and none may weep,
None dream of bliss,-or wake to woe. If e'er, as Fancy oft will feign,
To that dear spot which gave thee birth Thy fleeting shade returns again,
To look on him thou lov’dst on earth, It may a moment's joy impart,
To know that this, thy favourite tree, Is to my desolated heart
Almost as dear as thou could'st be.
The turf that wraps thee I shall press ;
I will not have the cypress gloom
Over the stillness of my tomb :