Well! one there is, or one shall be,
To give a ring instead of me;
And with it sacred vows for life
To love the fair-the angel-wife:
In that one act may every grace,
And every blessing have their place-
And give to future hours the bliss,
The charm of life, derived from this:
And when even love no more supplies---
When weary nature sinks to rest ;-
May brighter, steadier light arise,
And make the parting moment blest!

George Crabbe.

CCLXXXII.

PRAYER FOR INDIFFERENCE.

OFT I've implored the gods in vain,
And pray'd till I've been weary :
For once I'll seek my wish to gain
Of Oberon, the fairy.

Sweet airy being, wanton sprite,
Who lurk'st in woods unseen;
And oft by Cynthia's silver light,
Trip'st gaily o'er the green;

If e'er thy pitying heart was moved,
As ancient stories tell;

And for th' Athenian maid who loved,
Thou sought'st a wondrous spell;

O, deign once more t'exert thy power,—
Haply some herb or tree,

Sovereign as juice of western flower,
Conceals a balm for me.

I ask no kind return of love

No tempting charm to please;
Far from the heart those gifts remove,
That sighs for peace and ease!

Nor peace, nor ease, the heart can know,

That, like the needle true,

Turns at the touch of joy or woe;

But, turning, trembles too.

P

Far as distress the soul can wound, 'Tis pain in each degree:

'Tis bliss but to a certain bound ;—
Beyond is agony.

Then take this treacherous sense of mine,
Which dooms me still to smart ;
Which pleasure can to pain refine,
To pain new pangs impart.

O haste to shed the sovereign balm,—
My shatter'd nerves new string:
And for my guest serenely calm,
The nymph Indifference bring!

At her approach, see Hope, see Fear,
See Expectation fly!

And Disappointment in the rear,

That blasts the promised joy.

The tear which pity taught to flow,
The eye shall then disown;

The heart that melts for others' woe,
Shall then scarce feel its own.

The wounds which now each moment bleed,
Each moment then shall close;
And tranquil days shall still succeed
To nights of calm repose.

O Fairy Elf! but grant me this,

This one kind comfort send;

And so may never-fading bliss
Thy flowery paths attend!

So may the glow-worm's glimmering light
Thy tiny footsteps lead

To some new region of delight,
Unknown to mortal tread!

And be thy acorn goblet fill'd

With Heaven's ambrosial dew:

From sweetest, freshest flowers distill'd,

That shed fresh sweets for you!

And what of life remains for me,
I'll pass in sober ease;
Half-pleased, contented will I be,
Content but half to please.

CCLXXXIII.

Mrs. Fanny Greville.

A FRAGMENT.

LIFE! I know not what thou art,
But know that thou and I must part;
And when, or how, or where we met,
I own to me's a secret yet.

Life! we have been long together

Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; 'Tis hard to part when friends are dearPerhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear ;

Then steal away, give little warning,

Choose thine own time;

Say not good night,—but in some brighter clime Bid me good morning.

A. L. Barbauld.

CCLXXXIV.

A FRAGMENT.

Go, rose, my Chloe's bosom grace
How happy should I prove,
Might I supply that envied place
With never-fading love!

There, Phoenix-like, beneath her eye,

Involved in fragrance, burn and die.

Know, hapless flower, that thou shalt find

More fragrant roses there,

I see thy withering head reclined

With envy and despair;

One common fate we both must prove;

You die with envy, I with love.

John Gay.

CCLXXXV.

THE WHITE ROSE.

Sent by a Yorkist Gentleman to his Lancastrian Mistress.

If this fair rose offend thy sight,

Placed in thy bosom bare,

'Twill blush to find itself less white,

And turn Lancastrian there.

But if thy ruby lip it spy,

As kiss it thou mayst deign,

With envy pale 'twill lose its dye,

And Yorkist turn again.

Ascribed to James Somerville.

ΤΟ

CCLXXXVI.

ASLEEP.

SLEEP on, and dream of Heaven awhile.
Tho' shut so close thy laughing eyes,
Thy rosy lips still wear a smile,

And move, and breathe delicious sighs

Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks,
And mantle o'er her neck of snow.
Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks
What most I wish-and fear to know.

She starts, she trembles, and she weeps!
Her fair hands folded on her breast.
And now, how like a saint she sleeps!
A seraph in the realms of rest!

Sleep on secure! above control.

Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee!
And may the secret of thy soul

Remain within its sanctuary!

Samuel Rogers.

CCLXXXVII.

TO A YOUNG LADY ON HER RECOVERY FROM A FEVER.

WHY need I say, Louisa dear!
How glad I am to see you here,
A lovely convalescent;

Risen from the bed of pain and fear,
And feverish heat incessant.

The sunny showers, the dappled sky,
The little birds that warble high,
Their vernal loves commencing,
Will better welcome you than I
With their sweet influencing.

Believe me, while in bed you lay,
Your danger taught us all to pray:
You made us grow devouter!
Each eye look'd up and seem'd to say,
How can we do without her?

Besides, what vex'd us worse, we knew
They had no need of such as you
In the place where you were going;
This world has angels all too few,
And Heaven is overflowing!

Samuel T. Coleridge.

CCLXXXVIII.

TO A YOUNG LADY WHO HAD BEEN REPROACHED FOR TAKING LONG WALKS IN THE COUNTRY.

DEAR child of nature, let them rail!—
There is a nest in a green dale,

A harbour and a hold;

Where thou, a friend and wife, shalt see

Thy own heart-stirring days, and be

A light to young and old.