Upon a new Promethean plan She moulds the essence of a man, The gentle science she imparts, All manners smooths, informs all hearts, From her sweet influence are felt Passions that please and thoughts that melt; To stormy rage she bids controul, And sinks serenely on the soul, And tunes the warring world to peace. Thus arm'd 'gainst all that 's light and vain, She fills the sphere by heaven assign'd, MOORE. LOVE SECRETS. Love's Dear woman's the exquisite magnet of nature, And love is the heart-thrilling homage we pay; But Beauty has not a more delicate feature, Than the caution that Love should, if grateful, display. That name to the heart which sweet transport discloses Too sacred should be for a toast or a tale ; And the breathings of Love, like the perfumes of roses, THE SUPPLICATION. Leave me not yet!—thro' rosy skies from far, The quivering image of the first pale star Not yet!-Oh, hark! low tones from hidden streams My thoughts are like those gentle sounds, dear love, They wait for dews on earth, for stars above, Leave me not yet! HEMANS. 'Tis something if in absence we can trace SONNET. Perhaps the lady of my love is now BARRY CORNWALL. THE PROPOSAL. Ay, they are Love's own words! his breath of flame And thy cheek kindles at the "one loved name," Ay, it is Love's own tracing! every word 'Tis the heart's language—all thine ear hath heard (Like music from his tongue) is told again! Each fondly-murmur'd sigh, each half-breathed vow From his soul's depths are drawn, unseal'd, acknowledged now! With all a lover's tenderness, he lays His heart, his hopes, his fortunes, at thy feet; Implores thee, by those well-remember'd days That ye have pass'd so oft in "converse sweet," By many a whisper'd word in wood or grove, Not to reject his suit, or scorn his proffer'd love. What does thy young heart prompt thee to reply? By the carnation heightening on thy cheeks, And the bright crystal in thy downcast eye More eloquent than words-'tis thus it speaks: "Beloved one! each sigh thy breast hath known, Found, though unheard by thee, an echo in my own." Thou fair and lovely creature! Who may tell All the fond thoughts that crowd upon thy soul? Who analyse the varied hopes that swell Thy young untutor'd heart? or who control D |