THE VASE.

THERE was a vase of odour lay

For many an hour on Beauty's shrine,
So sweet that Love went every day
To banquet on its breath divine.

And not an eye had ever seen

The fragrant charm the vase conceal'd; Oh Love! how happy 'twould have been, If thou hadst ne'er that charm reveal'd!

But Love, like every other boy,

Would know the spell that lurks within: He wish'd to break the crystal toy, But beauty murmur'd "twas a sin!"

He swore, with many a tender plea,

That neither heaven or earth forbad it

She told him, Virtue kept the key,

And look'd as if she wish'd he had it!

He stole the key when Virtue slept,
(Ev'n she can sleep, if Love but ask it!)
And Beauty sigh'd, and Beauty wept,
While silly Love unlock'd the casket.

Oh dulcet air that vanish'd then!
Can Beauty's sigh recall thee ever!
Can Love, himself, inhale again

A breath so precious! never! never!

Go, maiden, weep-the tears of woe
By Beauty to repentance given,
Though bitterly on earth they flow,

Shall turn to fragrant balm in heaven!

THE WREATH AND THE CHAIN.

I BRING thee, Love, a golden chain,
I bring thee too a flowery wreath;
The gold shall never wear a stain,
The flowerets long shail sweetly breathe!
Come tell me which the tie shall be
To bind thy gentle heart to me.

The chain is of a splendid thread,
Stol'n from Minerva's yellow hair,
Just when the setting sun had shed
The sober beam of evening there.
The Wreath's of brightest my rtle wove,
With brilliant tears of bliss among it,
And many a rose-leaf, cull'd by Love,
To heal his lip when bees have stung it!
Come, tell me which the tie shall be,
To bind thy gentle heart to me.

Yes, yes, I read that ready eye,

Which answers when the tongue is loath, Thou lik'st the form of either tie,

And hold'st thy playful hands for both.

Ah!-if there were not something wrong,
The world would see them blended oft;
The Chain would make the Wreath so strong!
The Wreath would make the Chain so soft!
Then might the gold, the flow'rets be
Sweet fetters for my love and me!

But, FÁNNY, so unblest they twine,
That (heaven alone can tell the reason)
When mingled thus they cease to shine,
Or shine but for a transient season!
Whether the Chain may press too much,
Or that the Wreath is slightly braided,
Let but the gold the flow'rets touch,

And all their glow, their tints are faded ! Sweet FANNY, what would Rapture do, When all her blooms had lost their grace? Might she not stea a rose or two,

From other Wreaths to fill their place?Oh! better to be always free,

Than thus to bind my love to thee.

THE timid girl now hung her head,
And, as she turn'd an upward glance,
I saw a doubt its twilight spread

Along her brow's divine expanse. Just then, the garland's dearest rose Gave one of its seducing sighs— Oh! who can ask how FANNY chose, That ever look'd in FANNY's eyes! "The Wreath, my life, the Wreath shall be, "The tie to bind my soul to thee!"

ΤΟ

AND hast thou mark'd the pensive shade,
That many a time obscures my brow,
Midst all the blisses, darling maid,

Which thou canst give, and only thou!

Oh! 'tis not that I then forget

The endearing charms that round me twine

There never throb'd a bosom yet

Could feel their witchery, like mine!

When bashful on my bosom hid,

And blushing to have felt so blest,
Thou dost but lift thy languid lid,
Again to close it on my breast!

Oh! these are minutes all thine own,
Thine own to give, and mine to feel,
Yet ev❜n in them, my heart has known
The sigh to rise, the tear to steal.
For I have thought of former hours,
When he who first thy soul possess'd,
Like me awak'd its witching powers

Like me was lov'd, like me was blest!

Upon his name thy murmuring tongue
Perhaps hath all as sweetly dwelt ;
For him that snowy lid hath hung
In extacy, as purely felt!

For him-yet why the past recall

To wither blooms of present bliss!

Thou'rt now my own, I clasp thee all,
And heaven can grant no more than this!

Forgive me, dearest, oh! forgive;

I would be first, be sole to thee, Thou should'st but have begun to live, The hour that gave thy heart to me.

Thy book of life till then effac'd,

Love should keep that leaf alone,
On which he first so dearly trac'd
That thou wert, soul and all, my own!