CCXIX.

WHEN youthful faith hath fled,
Of loving take thy leave;
Be constant to the dead-
The dead cannot deceive.
Sweet modest flowers of spring,
How fleet your balmy day!
And man's brief year can bring
No secondary May.

No earthly burst again

Of gladness not of gloom
Fond hope and vision vain,
Ungrateful to the tomb.

But 'tis an old belief

That on some solemn shore,

Beyond the sphere of grief,

Dear friends shall meet once more.

Beyond the sphere of time,

And Sin and Fate's control,

Serene in endless prime

Of body and of soul.

That creed I fain would keep,
That hope I'll not forego,

Eternal be the sleep,

Unless to waken so.

John G. Lockhart.

CCXX.

THE FAIR THIEF.

BEFORE the urchin well could go,
She stole the whiteness of the snow;
And more,-that whiteness to adorn,
She stole the blushes of the morn:
Stole all the sweets that ether sheds
On primrose buds or violet beds.

Still, to reveal her artful wiles,
She stole the Graces' silken smiles:

She stole Aurora's balmy breath,
And pilfer'd Orient pearl for teeth:
The cherry, dipt in morning dew,
Gave moisture to her lips and hue.

These were her infant spoils, a store
To which, in time, she added more;
At twelve, she stole from Cyprus' queen
Her air and love-commanding mien;
Stole Juno's dignity, and stole
From Pallas sense to charm the soul.

Apollo's wit was next her prey,
Her next the beam that lights the day;
She sung; amazed the Syrens heard;
And to assert their voice appear'd:
She play'd; the Muses from the hill
Wonder'd who thus had stole their skill.

Great Jove approved her crimes and art;
And t'other day she stole my heart.
If lovers, Cupid, are thy care,

Exert thy vengeance on this fair;
To trial bring her stolen charms,

And let her prison be my arms.

Charles Wyndham, Earl of Egremont.

CCXXI.

ЕРІТАРН.

A Husband to a Wife.

THOU Wert too good to live on earth with me,
And I not good enough to die with thee.

Unknown.

CCXXII.

No truer friend than woman man discovers,
So that they have not been, nor can be lovers.

Unknown.

CCXXIII.

TILL death I Sylvia must adore ;
No time my freedom can restore;
Her cruel rigour makes me smart,
Yet when I try to free my heart,
Straight all my senses take her part.
And when against the cruel maid
I call my reason to my aid;
By that, alas! I plainly see
That nothing lovely is but she;
And reason captivates me more
Than all my senses did before.

Unknown.

CCXXIV.

TREASON doth never prosper-What's the reason?
If it doth prosper, none dare call it treason.

Sir John Harrington.

CCXXV.

NONE, without hope, e'er loved the brightest fair,
But love can hope when reason would despair.

CCXXVI.

George, Lord Lyttelton.

To MADAME DE DAMAS LEARNING ENGLISH

THOUGH British accents your attention fire,

You cannot learn so fast as we admire.
Scholars like you but slowly can improve,

For who would teach you but the verb "I love."

Horace Walpole, Earl of Orford.

CCXXVII.

As lamps burn silent with unconscious light,
So modest ease in beauty shines most bright,
Unaiming charms with edge resistless fall,
And she who means no mischief does it all.

Aaron Hill.

CCXXVIII.

I LOVED thee, beautiful and kind,
And plighted an eternal vow;
So alter'd are thy face and mind,
'Twere perjury to love thee now.

Robert, Earl Nugent.

CCXXIX.

To my ninth decade I have totter'd on,
And no soft arm bends now my step to steady;
She, who once led me where she would, is gone,
So when he calls me, Death shall find me ready.
Walter Savage Landor.

CCXXX.

My heart still hovering round about you
I thought I could not live without you:
But since we ve been three months asunder,
How I lived with you is the wonder.

CCXXXI.

Unknown.

ON THE DISTINGUISHED SINGER, MISS
MARIA TREE.

On this Tree if a nightingale settles and sings,
The Tree will return her as good as she brings.

Henry Luttrell.

CCXXXII.

ON SOUTHEY'S DEATH.

FRIENDS! hear the words my wandering thoughts would say,
And cast them into shape some other day;
Southey, my friend of forty years, is gone,
And, shatter'd by the fall, I stand alone.

Walter Savage Landor.

CCXXXIII.

THE LADY WHO OFFERS HER LOOKINGGLASS TO VENUS.

VENUS, take my votive glass;

Since I am not what I was,

What from this day I shall be,

Venus, let me never see.

Matthew Prior. (From Plato.)

CCXXXIV.

MYRTILLA, early on the lawn,

Steals roses from the blushing dawn;
But when Myrtilla sleeps till ten,

Aurora steals them back again!

Unknown.

CCXXXV.

ON THE COLLAR OF A DOG PRESENTED BY MR. POPE TO THE PRINCE OF WALES.

I AM his Highness' dog at Kew;

Pray, tell me, sir, whose dog are you?

Alexander Pope.

CCXXXVI.

ON THE GREEK SCHOLAR GOTTFRIED
HERMANN.

A Syllogism, with the Conclusion suppressed.

THE Germans in Greek

Are sadly to seek;

Not five in five-score

But ninety-five more;

All save only Hermann,

And-Hermann's a German.

Richard Porson.