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Upon a new Promethean plan
should but answer the beam that invites it, The glance that tells secrets true heart never won, The delicate mind veils the hope that requites it,
Lest it die, like the fire when exposed to the sun.
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,
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, Are exquisite death when surcharging the gale.
Leave me not yet!—thro' rosy skies from far,
But now the song-birds to their nests return;
Leave me not yet !
Not yet !-Oh, hark ! low tones from hidden streams
Piercing the shivery leaves e'en now arise ; Their voices mingle not with day-light dreams, They are of vesper's hymns and harmonies :
Leave me not yet!
My thoughts are like those gentle sounds, dear love, By day shut
in their own still recess; They wait for dews on earth, for stars above, Then to breathe out their soul of tenderness.
Leave me not yet !
'Tis something if in absence we can trace
Perhaps the lady of my love is now
Ay, they are Love's own words ! his breath of flame
Hath sigh'd upon the fair unconscious page, And thy cheek kindles at the “ one loved name,”
Whose every thought doth thy young heart engage; Fondly as pilgrims greet some hallow'd shrine, Thy lips would greet the words, “ Thine, dearest,
Ay, it is Love's own tracing ! every word
Of eloquence is written by his pen! '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, unseald, acknow
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 I 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