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Louisa's lips in kisses meet,
Like a twin cherry ripe and sweet;
In Catherine's breath rich perfume dwells;
But ah! how Julia's bosom swells,

To charm the gaze of man!
Yet if I praise them, sweet one, know,
They singly but remind me, so
Lips, breath, and bosom I can show
All blent in mistress Anne.


SWEET is the balmy evening hour,

And mild the glowworm’s light,
And soft the breeze that sweeps the flower

With pearly dew-drops bright.
I love to loiter on the hill,

And catch each trembling ray ;-
Fair as they are, they mind me still

Of fairer things than they.
What is the breath of closing flowers

But Feeling's gentlest sigh?
What are the dew-drops' crystal showers

But tears from Pity's eye?
What are the glowworms by the rill

But Fancy's flashes gay?
I love them, for they mind me still

Of one more dear than they.


I LIKE not beauty's roseate brightness ;

I like not beauty's sparkling eye:
Give me the cheek whose marble whiteness
Feeling's faint blush alone can dye;

Give me the pure and tranquil glance
Where no vain triumphs proudly dance,
Serene and blue as heaven's expanse;-

Thy cheeks, thine eyes, my Mary!
I like not lips for ever smiling;

I like not speech for ever gay:
Give me the softness more beguiling
Which gently veils wit's brilliant ray;

Give me the mellow voice that tells
What sweetness in the bosom dwells;
The sigh that oft that bosom swells ;-
Thy voice, thy sigh, my Mary!



No—not the eye of tender blue,

Though, Mary, 'twere the tint of thine,
Or breathing lip, of glowing hue,
Might bid the opening rose repine,

Had long enthrall’d my mind;
Nor tint with tint, alternate aiding,

That o'er the dimpled tablet flow,
The vermil to the lily fading,-
Nor ringlet bright with orient glow,

In many a tendril twined.

The breathing tint, the beamy ray,

The linear harmony divine
That o'er the form of beauty play,
Might warm a colder heart than mine,

But not for ever bind.
But when to radiant form and feature

Internal worth and feeling join,
With temper mild and gay good nature,-
Around the willing heart they twine
The empire of the mind.



Oh, frown not on my daring vows,

Thou high-born maid of Inistore ! Well mayst thou claim a nobler spouse,

But, Mary, will he love thee more?

When Winter's howling storms arise,

More fondly will he clasp thee round ? Gaze with more rapture in those eyes,

Or wake the song's diviner sound? Tell thee-'if proud, exalted power

Had placed him on a royal throne, In favouring fortune's brightest hour

He'd prize her smiles for thee alone !'
Tell thee_ if some lone turf were given

A pillow for his weary head,
That desert spot to him were heaven,

If Mary shared his humble bed !'

Oh, frown not on my daring vows

Thou high-born maid of Inistore ! Well mayst thou claim a nobler spouse, But, Mary, will he love thee more?


HERE's the vow she falsely swore,

Here's the heart she's broken-
Here's the lock she gave before,

Ah! who could doubt the token? Her vow recorded still remains,

But where's the lip that swore it? Her ringlet still my neck enchains,

But where's the brow that wore it? Swiftly flew my hours away

When faithful Beauty prized me; Slow has dragged the heavy day

Since faithless Love despised me. Yet, perchance, in lonely thought

Mary's breast may languish; Seek the solitude I've sought,'

And share my tender anguish.
If that thought should e'er arise,

Oh! let it not distress her
For though her injured lover dies,

His dying breath shall bless her.
Here's the vow she falsely swore,

Here's the heart she's broken-
Here's the lock she gave
Ah! who could doubt the token?


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'Twas not the quick and dazzling glance

That fires and overpowers the soul, And wraps it in delirious trance,

That bow'd me to thy sweet control: No! 'twas from eyes of heavenly blue,

A languid, tender, timid ray, Stealing through lids of darkest hue,

That won me from myself away. 'Twas not the firm commanding voice,

Whose rapid eloquence o'erflows, And seems at homage to rejoice,

That roused my breast from dull repose: No! 'twas the soft and melting tones,

Like nectar dropping from thy tongue, By which my heart thy empire owns;

Its every chord to passion strung. And while that wi ng voice I hear

And while those beaming eyes I see, Than light or life to me more dear,

My bosom's sovereign thou must be!


SONG. WHEN far beneath the western wave the orb of day's descended,

mantle spreads, And Twilight o'er the tired earth her dewy And all the bir save Philomel, their warbled

strains have ended, [their leafy beds; And, lulld by whispering zephyr, sleep within

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