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Upon a new Promethean plan
She moulds the essence of a man,
Tempers his mass, his genius fires,
And, as a better soul, inspires.
The rude she softens, warms the cold,
Exalts the meek, and checks the bold,
Calls Sloth from his supine repose,
Within the coward's bosom glows,
Of pride unplumes the lofty crest,
Bids bashful merit stand confest,
And, like coarse metal from the mines,
Collects, irradiates, and refines.
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,
Softens Deucalion's flinty race,
And tunes the warring world to peace.
Thus arm'd 'gainst all that 's light and vain,
And freed from thy fantastic chain,
She fills the sphere by heaven assign'd,
And ruled by me, o'errules mankind !





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;
The quivering image of the first pale star
On the dim lake scarce yet begins to burn :

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
The footsteps of the past : it soothes the heart
To breathe the air scented in other years
By lips beloved, to wander through the groves
Where once we were not lonely ; where the rose
Reminds us of the hair we used to wreathe
With its fresh buds,—where every hill and vale,
And wood and fountain, speak of time gone by,
And Hope springs up in joy from Memory's ashes.



Perhaps the lady of my love is now
Looking upon the skies. A single star
Is rising in the east, and from afar
Sheds a most tremulous lustre : silent night
Doth wear it like a jewel on her brow:
But see! it motions with its lovely light
Onwards and onwards through those depths of blue
To its appointed course, stedfast and true.
So, dearest, would I fain be unto thee
Stedfast for ever,-like yon planet fair;
And yet more like art thou a jewel rare,
Oh! brighter than the brightest star to me.
Come hither, my young love, and I will wear
Thy beauty on my breast delightedly.



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,

ever thine.”

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

ledged 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 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


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