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Yet, why a lonely wanderer stray?
Alone the joy pursue?
The glories of the closing day
Can charm thy Mary too.

O Edward, when we stroll'd along
Beneath the waving corn,
And both confess'd the power of song,
And bless'd the dewy morn;
To thy fond words my heart replied
(My presence then could move),
How sweet with Mary by my side,
To gaze and talk of love.'

Thou art not false;-that cannot be!
Yet I my rivals deem

Each woodland charm, the moss, the tree,
The silence, and the stream.

If these, my love, detain thee now,

I'll yet forgive thy stay;

But with to-morrow's dawn come thou-
We'll brush the dews away.



HUMID seal of soft affections!

Tenderest pledge of future bliss! Dearest tie of young connexions!

Love's first snowdrop, virgin kiss! Speaking silence! dumb confession!

Passion's birth and infant play! Dovelike fondness, chaste concession, Glowing dawn of brighter day!



Sorrowing joy! adieu's last action,

When lingering lips no more must join! What words can ever speak affection

So thrilling, so sincere as thine?

Thee the fond youth, untaught and simple,
Nor on the naked breast can find,
Nor yet within the cheek's small dimple!
Sole offspring thou of lips conjoin'd!
Then haste thee to thy dewy mansion;

With Hebe spend the laughing day!
Dwell in her rubied lips' expansion!
Bask in her eyes propitious ray!


LET the lovesick boy, who dies
If anger beam from Cloe's eyes,
Bow before the iron rod


Of the tyrant archer god;

Who feeds with dreams of poison'd bowls
The gloomy, dull, distemper'd souls
Of wretched lovers, who despair,
Because a peevish woman's fair!

Be mine the little rosy boy
Whose only chains are chains of joy;
Who dances on to Lydian measures,
Surrounded by a troop of pleasures;
Mutual wishes, soft desires,

Such as merry May inspires,

When in the Twins the sun is glowing,
And a fragrant zephyr blowing;
And sometimes round his temples twine
A fillet steeped in mighty wine:

But ever let the snow-wing'd dove
Of sacred faith around him move;
Let honour be his constant friend,
And secrecy his steps attend.



LET prudence point her thorny way,
Let knaves invent and fools obey,
Let cowards bow to reason's shrine;
I'll be mad with love and wine.

Let the pedant proud disdain
Wit and humour's sparkling vein,
His sluggish feeling never caught
By one eccentric glowing thought;
Be the wreath of fancy mine,
I'll be mad with love and wine.
Let the envious hypocrite
False and musty saws indite;
Let the idle moralist
Mirth's entrancing sway resist;
Be the course of pleasure mine,
I'll be mad with love and wine.

Love to peace Ambition charms,
Wine the care-chill'd bosom warms;
And when its powers no more inspire
Vivid wit's responsive fire;
When the jovial hours are run,
And the laugh of spirit done;
And silence with his blinking eye
Mocks the parted revelry;

Her witching dreams delight shall shed,

And yielding beauty crown my bed.



IN yonder bower lies Pleasure sleeping,
And near him mourns a blooming maid!
He will not wake, and she sits weeping;
When lo! a stranger proffers aid:
His hurried step, his glance of fire,
The god of wishes wild declare!
C Fond Pleasur wake!' exclaims Desire,
And Pleasure wakes to bless the fair.

But soon the nymph, in evil hour,
Desire asleep is doom'd to view;

6 Try, Pleasure, try,' she cries,' your power,
And wake Desire, as he woke you.'
Fond girl, thy prayer exceeds all measure,
Distinct must each his province keep:
Desire must still awaken Pleasure,

And Pleasure lull Desire to sleep.



I'VE roam'd through many a weary round,
I've wander'd east and west;

Pleasure in every clime I found,
But sought in vain for rest.

While Glory sighs for other spheres,
I feel that one's too wide,

And think the home which love endears
Worth all the world beside.

The needle thus, too rudely moved,
Wanders unconscious where,

Till having found the place it loved,
It trembling settles there.



DID you see my fair one ever
In her vernal morn of love?
She was sweet as blooming heather,
Soft as turtle of the grove.

Oh! when first my eyes beheld her,
Blushing in her early teens!
Rose nor lily e'er excell'd her,

Though the garden's rival queens.
Budding like the Paphian myrtle,

Softly swell'd her virgin breast: There beneath the modest kirtle

Love yet slumber'd in his nest. Mild her eyebeam, sweetly playing, Like the morning's tender light; Through the silken lashes straying,

Shafts resistless wing'd their flight.

One sly corner, all so bright in,
Lo! a bevel'd vein appear.

Love had stolen his grandsire's lightning,
And conceal'd the plunder here.

Such my fair one, brightly glowing,
Blossom'd in her vernal hour.
Time, each mental charm bestowing,
Give the fruit, but spare the flower.



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