The cold moon, trembling with affright,

Grows pale, and reels athwart the night;

Convulsive Mona backward leaps,

And groans along her thousand steeps.

Once more they shout, 'to vengeance run, 'Ere morn a palsying deed of hell is done.'

LOVER'S WHIMS.

TO A LOCK OF HAIR.

LOVELY LOCK of auburn hue,

Let me catch thy varied curls,

There the light streak wanders thro,

Here the black its polish furls :

Little trifle, arch in guesses,

Tell me, why I count thy tresses?

Hide thee, that I cannot do;

Lose thee; never, never, never;

Love thee; as my life 'tis true,

Death alone the tie shall sever:

Absent, present, laughing, sighing,

Still I love thee; why not dying?

Sure some fairy sylph reclined,

Mid thy folds in ambush lies,

Weaving there the spells that blind,

Charms, and dreams, and smiles, and sighs;

Else, why gaze I, wrapt in sadness,

On thy knots with curious madness?

Tell the secret; was it true,

Mantling round my favorite's cheek,

(Polished snow and roseate hue,)

While the charmer turned to speak,

Quick I stole thee unperceived,

Envy urged me, love deceived.

Stern repentance marked the hour,

Soon my joy was turned to pain;

CUPID caught me in his power,

Sigh I now, and now complain,

Restless wander, fitful start,

Sure her blushes won my heart.

Mystic LOCK, again return,

Whence my ardent folly tore thee,

Yet I rave, despair, and burn,

Peace may come should I restore thee.

No, on subtlest mischief bent,

Thou wilt not in turn relent.

Yet I hold thee still most dear,

Lovely keepsake, bright and holy,

Thou shalt hush each throbbing fear,

Dark presage and melancholy :

While thy amulet I wear,

Who shall bid my heart despair?

O! be still my guardian guest,

Banish hence the fiends of glory,

Sleep upon my panting breast,

Listen to my plaintive story.

Should my charmer learn my sorrow,
She may bid me hope tomorrow.

LINES,

WRITTEN ON A HERMITAGE.

NYMPHS, who court the glowing day,

Seek with us the enchanted grove,

Where no lawless footsteps. stray,

To blight the tender flowers of love..

Here content with smiling face

Weaves the myrtle wreaths of peace;

Nature charms with chastened grace,

Sighs of hope and anguish cease.

Hither bend your wildered feet,

Undisturbed by riot rude ;

Kindred souls delight to meet
Mid the cells of Solitude.

THE DISCONSOLATE.

I AM sad, what can now be the cause,
I complain, and I hardly know why ;

If I speak 'tis with many a pause;
Perhaps it were best, I might die.