Dark-eyed Castilian! let me win
Forgiveness sweet for venial sin;
Let lonely sighs and dreams of thee,
Be penance for my perjury.

TO JULIA,

PREPARING FOR HER FIRST SEASON IN TOWN.

JULIA, while London's fancied bliss

Bids you despise a life like this,

While

and its joys you leave,

For hopes, that flatter to deceive,

You will not scornfully refuse,

(Though dull the theme, and weak the Muse,)

To look upon my line, and hear

What Friendship sends to Beauty's ear.

Four miles from Town, a neat abode

O'erlooks a rose-bush, and a road;
A paling, clean'd with constant care,
Surrounds ten yards of neat parterre,
Where dusty ivy strives to crawl
Five inches up the whiten'd wall.

The open window, thickly set

With myrtle, and with mignionette,
Behind whose cultivated row

A brace of globes peep out for show;

The avenue-the burnish'd plate,

That decks the would-be rustic gate, Denote the fane where Fashion dwells, -"Lyce's Academy for Belles."

"Twas here, in earlier, happier days, Retired from Pleasure's weary maze, You found, unknown to care or pain, The peace you will not find again. Here Friendships, far too fond to last, A bright, but fleeting radiance cast, On every sport that Mirth devised, And every scene that Childhood prized, And every bliss, that bids you yet Recall those moments with regret.

Those friends have mingled in the strife

That fills the busy scene of life,

And Pride and Folly-Cares and Fears,
Look dark upon their future years:
But by their wrecks may Julia learn,
Whither her fragile bark to turn;
And, o'er the troubled sea of fate,
Avoid the rocks they found too late.

You know Camilla-o'er the plain She guides the fiery hunter's rein; First in the chase she sounds the horn, Trampling to earth the farmer's corn, That hardly deign'd to bend its head, Beneath her namesake's lighter tread. With Bob the Squire, her polish'd lover, She wields the gun, or beats the cover; And then her steed!-why! every clown Tells how she rubs Smolensko down, And combs the mane, and cleans the hoof, While wondering hostlers stand aloof.

At night, before the Christmas fire She plays backgammon with the Squire ; Shares in his laugh, and his liquor, Mimics her father and the Vicar;

Swears at the grooms-without a blush

Dips in her ale the captured brush,

Until

her father duly tired

The parson's wig as duly fired

The dogs all still-the Squire asleep,

And dreaming of his usual leap

She leaves the dregs of white and red,
And lounges languidly to bed;

And still in nightly visions borne,

She gallops o'er the rustic's corn;
Still wields the lash-still shakes the box,
Dreaming of "sixes "-and the fox.

And this is bliss-the story runs,

Camilla never wept-save once;

Yes! once indeed Camilla cried

'Twas when her dear Blue-stockings died.

Pretty Cordelia thinks she's ill—

She seeks her med'cine at Quadrille ;
With hope, and fear, and envy sick,
She gazes on the dubious trick,

As if Eternity were laid

Upon a diamond, or a spade.

And I have seen a transient pique

Wake, o'er that soft and girlish cheek,
A chilly and a feverish hue,

Blighting the soil where Beauty grew,
And bidding Hate and Malice rove

In

eyes that ought to beam with love.