FANCY'S FIRST, 
 
 TENDER TRIFLES. 
 
FANCY'S FIRST, 
 
 TENDER TRIFLES. 
 
 W. BROWN KITCHINER, Esq. 
 
 Sequiturque Patrem non passibus aequis. — Virgil. 
 
 J. MOYES, TOOK'S COURT, CHANCERY LANE. 
 
 M.DCCC.XXIX. 
 

 205449 
 »15 
 
DEDICATION. 
 
 MY WIFE. 
 
 " From the tumultuous rule of passions freed, 
 Pure in thy thought, and spotless in thy deed, 
 In virtues rich, in goodness unconfined, 
 Thou shewst a fair example to thy kind. 
 Sincere and equal to thy neighbour's name, 
 How swift to praise — how guiltless to defame ! 
 Bold, in thy presence, Bashfulness appears, 
 And backward Merit loses all its fears ; 
 Supremely blest by Heaven, Heaven's richest grace 
 Confest is thine — an early blooming race." 
 
 Gentle Shepherdess, 1788. 
 
 Poets, like all authors, labour under a very excusable 
 vanity — the love of approbation ; and have often been 
 encouraged, under the greatest disadvantages, to per- 
 severe in their performance, by a desire to please those 
 
VI DEDICATION. 
 
 " whose praise is fame." Why, then, may it be asked, 
 should not the Author- of the present Volume be allowed 
 the indulgence of the same trivial fault ? 
 
 Conscious of my own inability, and of the responsi- 
 bility which now attaches itself to me as the Father of 
 this Work, I feel myself wanting some support, and that 
 one name is required in my Volume, which, independent 
 of any trifling merit it may be fortunate enough to pos- 
 sess in itself, would alone give it value. 
 
 Most willingly and eagerly do these my Tender 
 Trifles throw themselves at the feet of thee, my ami- 
 able and affectionate Wife, humbly supplicating that a 
 portion of that regard which you have bestowed upon 
 their parent may be extended towards them. 
 
 The limited space allotted for a Dedication does not 
 allow me to send those praises forth which I might other- 
 
DEDICATION. vii 
 
 wise wish, and might do without flattery ; for flattery 
 does not, I conceive, consist in paying Merit what is 
 Merit's due, but in the application of praise misplaced. 
 To say that you are all that is good and amiable, is to 
 speak the truth — to say more, would be to throw " a 
 perfume on the violet.''' 
 
 " And all those sayijigs will I over swear, 
 And all those swearings keep as true in soul 
 As doth that orbed continent, the fire, 
 That severs day from night.'''' — Twelfth Night. 
 
 It is acknowledged by the world, and with truth, 
 that a weak friend's defence is frequently more injurious 
 than an enemy's abuse : so may, in like manner, an 
 injudicious Dedication reflect but a very negative com- 
 pliment on those we most wish to please. 
 
 In the present production IJ'eel this truth sincerely, 
 and wish that the first offering of my Muse could have 
 been more worthy of her to whom it it inscribed. Yet, 
 
Vlll DEDICATION. 
 
 could my virgin page be more appropriately dedicated 
 than to one whose worth, beauty, and affection, first 
 taught me " what is loveT 
 
 " That man i' the world who shall report he has 
 A better wife, let him in nought be trusted 
 For speaking false in that.'" — King Henry VIII 
 
 To my Wife, this book of Poems is inscribed by 
 him whose proudest title will ever be that of Her 
 Husband. 
 
 W. BROWN KITCHINER. 
 
ADDRESS TO MY PEN. 
 
 My trusty Pen, I feel disposed 
 
 To write a preface, but am posed : 
 
 I've rummaged o'er my motley brain, 
 
 To rake up something like a strain, 
 
 But found my upper story bare — 
 
 " Lodgings to let Unfurnished" there. 
 
 " Sir Wit,'" their quondam tenant, grown 
 
 Too poor to pay his lodging — flown. 
 
 Thank God ! I've yet no fame to lose : 
 Unknown, uneared for by the Muse, 
 Fly-like, the surface I but wish 
 To taste of her poetic dish ; 
 For let not me, my gentle Pen, 
 Too greedy, tumble headlong in ; 
 But sip the sacred sweets with art, 
 And play with skill a poet's part. 
 
ADDRESS TO MY PEN. 
 
 Give me thy gray-goose wings, to fly 
 Through air and revel in the sky ; 
 Let me but reach that favoured sphere, 
 They'd find me no bad fellow there. 
 What would I do ? — what would I not ? 
 I'd vote all prose should go to pot ; 
 Then beg the Muse, for auld lang syne, 
 To patronise these things of mine. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 " Like leaves on trees the race of men is found, 
 
 Now green in youth, now withering on the ground ; 
 Another race the following spring supplies, 
 They fall successive, and successive rise : 
 So generations in their course decay." — Pope. 
 
 The literary writings of the late Dr. Kitchiner have 
 earned for him so just and deserved a fame, and are, I 
 believe, so well known, that I am fearful the production 
 of this work may incline some to suppose that his son 
 is anxious to be considered as inheriting those talents 
 which shed so bright a lustre round his father's name. 
 
 " His mind was active, ambitious, and adventurous, 
 — always investigating, always aspiring; and was 
 never content with mediocrity, when excellence could be 
 attained. He was one of those few whose labour is 
 their pleasure, — he was never elevated to negligence, 
 nor wearied to impatience, — he never passed a fault un- 
 amended by indifference, nor quitted it from despair, — 
 
he laboured his works, first to gain reputation, and 
 afterwards to establish it. 
 
 " His method was, to write his first thoughts in his 
 first words; and gradually to amplify, decorate, rectify, 
 and refine them.* He was not content to satisfy, he 
 desired to excel ; and therefore always endeavoured to 
 do his best : he did not court the candour, but dared 
 the judgment of his reader; and expecting no in- 
 dulgence from others, he shewed none to himself. He 
 examined lines and words with minute and punctilious 
 observation, and retouched every part with indefati- 
 gable diligence, till he left nothing to be forgiven. 
 
 " His publications were, for the same reason, never 
 hasty : he knew that the mind is always enamoured of 
 its own productions, and did not trust his first fondness : 
 he consulted his friends, and listened with great 
 
 * Dr. N having printed two heavy volumes, containing the 
 
 natural history of Worcestershire, Dr. Barton remarked to him, that 
 his publication was, in several particulars, extremely erroneous ; and 
 
 when Dr. N defended his volumes, replied, " Pray Dr. N 
 
 are not you a Justice of the Peace?" " I am, Sir," was the reply. 
 " Why, then, Sir," added Barton, " I advise you to send your work to 
 the same place you send your vagrants ; viz. to the house of " Cor- 
 rection.'''' 
 
willingness to criticism ; and, what was of more im- 
 portance, he consulted himself, and let nothing pass 
 against his own judgment." 
 
 Such has been said of Pope, — and if the above 
 quotation had been originally applied to Dr. Kitchiner, 
 
 Truth had confessed his disposition such, 
 
 That nought was said too little or too much — W. B. K. 
 
 However anxious I might feel that his abilities had 
 been transferred to myself, I cannot be so vain as to 
 suppose that I shall be so fortunate as to possess one 
 tithe of those talents which once were his. I can liken 
 myself to my father but in this, I love not idleness ; 
 and, like him, would I at all times be employed in 
 something, however trifling, rather than remain doing 
 nothing. 
 
 " And ever, against eating cares, 
 Lap me in soft Lydian airs, 
 Married to immortal verse." — Milton. 
 
 The Rev. C. Colton, in his work entitled " Lacon, 
 or Many Things in Few Words," has said, that an 
 idle man should be considered as an interloper in a 
 well-organised society; — he sits at home all the day, 
 
till, having accumulated an insupportable load of 
 " ennui," he sallies forth to distribute it amongst his 
 friends, who are enjoying the pleasure of his com- 
 pany for the sole reason that he is tired of himself; 
 and who, it might be added, goes about seeking for 
 amusement, like the beggar for charity. 
 
 " Like a coy maiden, Ease, when courted most, 
 Farthest retires — an idol, at whose shrine 
 Who oft'nest sacrifice are favoured least." 
 
 Cowper's Task, Book I. p. 19. 
 
 I claim no kindred with Ludlam's dog, that " leaned 
 his head against the wall to bark." At all times should 
 our mind's occupation, if not amusing to others, be in 
 some degree instructive to ourselves — perhaps, in this 
 work, I am only entitled to claim one of these remarks. 
 
 The accompanying Poems are submitted, even to 
 the inspection of my friends, with much hesitation; 
 for, indeed, the pursuit of poetry, which has a language 
 peculiar to itself, is far different from that of prose : # 
 the rich gardens of the former are opened but to the 
 
 * It has been often said, and the concurring voice of all antiquity 
 affirms, that poetry is older than prose. 
 
few and favoured ; whilst in the fair fields of the latter, 
 many are the competitors for fame. 
 
 " Ah ! who can tell how hard it is to climb 
 
 The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar ?" 
 
 Beattie's Minstrel. 
 
 I know of no passion capable of affording so rich a 
 harvest as the love of poetry ; and I am not acquainted 
 with any object of less interest and greater tediousness 
 than the perusal of bad poetry. 
 
 In order to explore the rise of poetry, we should 
 have recourse to the deserts and the wilds ; we must go 
 back to the age of hunters and of shepherds, — to the 
 highest antiquity and to the simplest form of manners 
 among mankind. 
 
 Dr. Blair has given us the following, as what he 
 considers to be the most just and comprehensive 
 definition of poetry, — " That it is the language of 
 passion, or of enlivened imagination, formed most 
 commonly into regular numbers. 
 
 " The historian, the orator, the philosopher, address 
 themselves, for the most part, primarily to the un- 
 derstanding ; their direct aim is to inform, to persuade, 
 
or to instruct : but the primary aim of a poet is to 
 please and move ; and therefore it is to the imagination 
 and the passions that he speaks." — Blair's Lectures. 
 
 Aristotle, who has treated of poetry at great length, 
 assigns two causes of its origin — imitation and har- 
 mony ; both of which are natural to the human mind. 
 
 By imitation he understands whatever employs 
 means to represent any subject in a natural manner, 
 whether it hath a real or imaginary existence. By 
 harmony he understands, not the numbers or measures 
 of poetry only, but that music of language which, when 
 it is justly adapted to variety of sentiment or descrip- 
 tion, contributes most effectually to unite the pleasing 
 with the instructive. Plato has said that poetry was 
 originally E%?og /w^avs, or an inspired imitation of those 
 objects which produced either pleasure or admiration. 
 
 It is generally allowed that Amphion, who was a 
 native of Boeotia, brought music into Greece from 
 Lydia, and invented that instrument (the lyre) from 
 which lyric poetry takes its name. An explanation of 
 the ancient lyre may not be here considered out of 
 place. This instrument was composed of a hollow 
 frame, over which several strings were thrown — much, 
 
it may be supposed, as they are now arranged on the 
 harp or dulcimer : they did not so much resemble the 
 viol, as the neck of that instrument gives it peculiar 
 advantages, of which the ancients seem to have been 
 wholly ignorant. 
 
 The musician stood with a short bow in his right 
 hand, and a couple of small thimbles upon the fingers 
 of his left : with these he held one end of the string 
 from which an acute sound was to be drawn, and then 
 struck it immediately with the bow : in the other 
 parts he swept over every string alternately, and al- 
 lowed each of them to have its full sound. This prac- 
 tice became unnecessary afterwards, when the instru- 
 ment was improved by the addition of new strings to 
 which the sounds corresponded. Horace tells us, that 
 in his time the lyre had seven strings, and that it was 
 much more musical than it had been originally. 
 
 The different walks of poetry may not be inaptly 
 compared to a garden, rich in the possession of the 
 most costly flowers, and which will yield unto the 
 scientific researcher a nosegay unrivalled for beauty or 
 sweetness — where he might stray in luxurious contem- 
 plation, finding each day's pursuit rewarding him with 
 
fresh fruits. Poets may be likened to those who are 
 invited to enter and partake of this " fair nature's 
 feast," and to select from its different beds those 
 plants which may most please. He who fortunately 
 is acquainted with the intrinsic value of each flower 
 and shrub, will select the best ; but the ignorant and 
 uninitiated gathers indiscriminately from those which 
 first attract his attention, and carries off but a poor 
 prize. 
 
 To the last of these I shall compare myself, and 
 my volume to the nosegay made up of different and 
 common -place flowers — but, alas! containing no 
 " Forget- Me-Not." 
 
 " 'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print : — 
 A book's a book, although there's nothing in't." 
 
 Byron's English Bards. 
 
 In the present volume I have not aspired to the 
 " sublime," but merely to skim the surface, and to 
 partake of some of the crumbs which may fall from 
 the Muse's store. If I have accomplished nothing else, 
 the perusal of these poems may have brought 
 
 " Tired nature's sweet restorer, 
 
to some of my friends ; and if any sulky pulse may 
 have required to be wound up by such means, and its 
 owner has been gently coaxed into & forty 1011^ nap — 
 why then — I shall begin to entertain faith for the old 
 proverb, that " Something good may be had from 
 every fool." A man may paint to please himself; but 
 those who are privileged to the view of his performance 
 may, perhaps, almost have their eyes put out by the 
 unseemly daub. 
 
 As I have alluded to the art of painting, it may not 
 be amiss to inquire which of the three — music, paint- 
 ing, or poetry — carries the palm of preference. As to 
 that art which, upon the whole, is most excellent of the 
 three, it must be observed among the various media of 
 imitating, — some will naturally be more accurate, some 
 less; some will best imitate one subject, some another. 
 
 The subjects most fitted for painting are all such 
 incidents as are peculiarly characterised by figure and 
 colour ; — all energies, passions, and affections of the 
 soul being in any ordinary degree more intense and 
 violent than usual — all actions and events whose in- 
 tegrity or wholeness depends upon a self-evident suc- 
 cession of events — all actions which are known, and 
 
known universally, rather than those newly invented, 
 or known but to the few. Every picture is by neces- 
 sity a punctum temporis, or instant; and it may justly 
 be questioned whether the most celebrated subjects 
 borrowed by painting from history would have been 
 any of them intelligible through the medium of paint- 
 ing only, supposing history to have been silent, and 
 to have given no additional information ? Horace has 
 advised, conformably to this opinion, that even poets 
 should prefer a known before an unknown story : — 
 
 " Tuque 
 Rectius Iliacum carmen deducis in actus, 
 Quam si proferres ignota, indictaque ; primus." — Ars Poet. v. 128. 
 
 In music, the subjects most appropriate for imita- 
 tion are all such circumstances as are most eminently 
 characterised by motion and sound. Thus, in the 
 natural or inanimate world, music may imitate the 
 glidings, murmurings, roaring, and other accidents of 
 water — the same of thunder — the same of winds. In 
 the animal world, it may imitate the singing of birds; 
 in the human kind, it can also imitate some motions, 
 as the walk of the giant Polypheme, in the pastoral 
 of Acis and Galatea — " See what ample strides he 
 
PEEFACE XXI 
 
 takes," Sec. ; and of sounds, those most perfectly 
 which are expressive of grief or anger. This species 
 of musical imitation most nearly approaches nature ; 
 for grief in most animals declares itself in sounds 
 which are not unlike the long notes in the chromatic 
 system. Of this kind is the chorus of Baal's priests 
 in the oratorio of Deborah, " Doleful tidings, how ye 
 sound !" 
 
 Poetic imitation includes every thing in it which 
 is either performed by pictorial or musical imitation; 
 for its materials are words, and words are symbols, by 
 compact, of all ideas. 
 
 There is a very striking resemblance between the 
 sound of a harsh instrument and of that line in Virgil : 
 
 " Stridenti miserum stipula disperdere carmen." — Eclog. iii. v. 27< 
 
 Or of another in Milton in his Lycidas : 
 
 " Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw." 
 
 Horace has beautifully imitated the smooth, swift 
 gliding of a river, in the following : 
 
 ' at ille 
 
 Labitur, et labetur in omne volubilis svum," 
 
 Epist. ii. lib. i. 
 
The genuine force of poetry depends not upon the 
 imitations of mere natural sound, bat on sounds sig- 
 nificant — the compact symbols of all ideas. Here it 
 is enabled to find sounds expressive of every idea ; and 
 there is no one subject of imitation to which it does 
 not aspire. Language is the most adequate medium 
 of imitation : in sentiments it is the only medium ; 
 and in manners and passions there is no other which 
 can exhibit them to us after that clear, precise, and 
 definite way, as they in nature stand allotted to the 
 race of men, and are found to constitute the several 
 characters of each. It is certainly true that some idea 
 of character may be obtained from painting ; but then 
 this idea would be vague and general. 
 
 To compare, therefore, poetry with painting — in- 
 asmuch as no subjects of the latter are wholly supe- 
 rior to the former; that poetry can most accurately 
 imitate ; and that, independent of this, a charm exists 
 in poetry arising from its very numbers, to which 
 painting can have no pretence — poetry is undoubtedly 
 not only equal, but far superior to painting. And with 
 regard to music, the pre-eminence is equally observ- 
 able ; for in those subjects most adapted to music, 
 
poetry excels it in the accuracy of its imitation ; 
 and as a v;ell-educated eye cannot but feel pain 
 on witnessing a want of exactness in any object, 
 so in like manner must a well-educated or cor- 
 rectly tuned ear instantly discover any imperfections 
 in a verse. 
 
 In general, that faculty of the mind usually called 
 " taste," whereby we are touched with pleasure or 
 disgust by objects presented before us, is not only in 
 very different degrees in different men, but is also as 
 various in the diversity of the object by which each 
 man is principally affected. 
 
 A poet may content his own taste, but cannot en- 
 sure the favourable opinion of the world. To please 
 ourselves, and to satisfy the world, are two tasks very 
 different, and " wide as the poles asunder." 
 
 " Though rhymes may flow spontaneous from the mind, 
 Poetic thought should be by Taste refined." 
 
 No one, I believe, ever made himself a poet. We 
 may be born within the Muse's favoured sphere, and 
 by the diligent perusal of authors, such as Byron, 
 Moore, Scott, &c. &c. greatly improve ourselves : hard 
 
study may make a good classic, attentive reading may 
 produce a correct mathematician, and perfection may 
 be obtained in many arts by perseverance. 
 
 A late celebrated author has said, " that the grand 
 secret of success in all arts is an insatiable thirsty 
 ambition to outdo all others;" but the above will not 
 apply in the present case : unless the Muse presents 
 her smiling face to us of her own accord, we shall 
 never find her. To him who already feels the inspired 
 Muse within him, and was born a poet, to him it may 
 apply, but not to the uncalled : Byron, Burns, &c. 
 were poets of Nature's own creation. 
 
 " Nascimur poetae, finimus oratores." — Cicero. 
 
 There is a vast difference between the acquirements 
 of wisdom and the instantaneous effusions of genius : 
 the former seeks that perfection at which it can never 
 arrive, aided although it be by constant labour and 
 intense study ; whilst the inspirations of the latter, 
 coming warm from the soul, can never be excelled. 
 
 Johnson, in his Lives of the Poets, thus speaks of 
 himself : " He found that one inquiry only gave occa- 
 sion to another, that book referred to book, that to 
 
search was not always to find, and to find was not 
 always to be informed ; and that thus to pursue per- 
 fection was, like the first inhabitants of Arcadia, to 
 chase the sun, which, when they had reached the hill 
 where he seemed to rest, was still beheld at the same 
 distance from them." 
 
 " This globe portrayed the race of learned men 
 Still at their books, and turning o'er the page 
 Backwards and forwards : oft they snatch the pen 
 As if inspired, and, in a Thespian rage, 
 Then write and blot." 
 
 Thomson's Castle of Indolence, canto i. 
 
 Wisdom may fashion out for itself a phrase into a 
 thousand different forms, equally correct and cold ; but 
 it remains for genius to clothe in a language of its 
 own the most simple expressions, and by the fire of 
 her imagination appeal to all our hearts : 
 
 " Something whose truth convinced at sight we find, 
 That gives us back the image of the mind." — Pope. 
 
 The one will write point because " 'tis nature 
 speaks," the other will write measure because he is 
 indebted to " art." A writer of brilliant fancy will 
 
form his own system, one of ordinary capacity will 
 never vary from " line and rule." And why do we 
 always find this to be the case ? For one simple and 
 very obvious reason : to one is happily given the 
 faculty of invention — the riches of the other consist 
 wholly in imitation. 
 
 The vast difference between invention and imitation 
 may be seen in the ordinary, every-day occurrences of 
 life. He who builds a house with bricks and mortar, 
 merely because such articles may be used in the erec- 
 tion of a house, will most probably build a very in- 
 ferior edifice. The materials require to be arranged 
 in a certain order ; but will not genius impart to them 
 a more attracting exterior, and decorate them more 
 beautifully, than the person whose only knowledge of 
 architecture is that which he may have obtained by 
 set rules, and whose whole system hinges upon his 
 mechanical regularity ? 
 
 Erudition cannot be acquired but by the most 
 laborious diligence : such is far from being the case 
 with genius, for its best and most nervous passages 
 are those which are attended with the least labour. 
 
 The imagination of genius may become exhausted, 
 
but it is only for a time : like the drooping flower 
 awaiting the influence of heaven, which, when re- 
 freshed by morn's sweet dew and sunny skies, again 
 discloses its delicate bud in native brilliancy and 
 beauty — so genius may droop awhile, to rise more 
 vigorous from its rest. Wisdom is the graft of a tree, 
 which, attended with due care, will produce fruit; 
 but genius is the parent stem, yielding to the former 
 those nutritive qualities without which it would not 
 produce fruit. 
 
 Genius is the offspring of reason and imagination, 
 properly moderated, and co-operating with united 
 influence, to promote the discovery or the illustration 
 of truth. Though it is certain that a separate province 
 is assigned to each of these faculties, yet it often 
 becomes a matter of the greatest difficulty to prevent 
 them from making mutual encroachments, and from 
 leading to extremes, which are the more dangerous 
 because they are brought on by imperceptible pro- 
 gression. 
 
 Reason in every mind is a uniform power, and its 
 appearance is regular and invariably permanent. 
 When this faculty, therefore, predominates in the 
 
sphere of composition, sentiments will follow each 
 other in connected succession ; the arguments em- 
 ployed to prove any point will be just and forcible; 
 the stability of a work will be principally considered, 
 and little regard will be paid to its exterior ornament. 
 
 Such a work, however, though it may be valued 
 by a few for its intrinsic excellence, can never be 
 productive of general improvement, — as attention can 
 only be fixed by entertainment, and entertainment is 
 incompatible with unvaried uniformity. 
 
 On the contrary, when imagination is permitted to 
 bestow the graces of ornament indiscriminately, we 
 either in the general perceive that sentiments are 
 superficial and thinly scattered through a work, or we 
 are obliged to search for them beneath a load of 
 superfluous covering : such is the appearance of the 
 superior faculties of the mind when they are disunited 
 from each other, or when either of them seems to be 
 remarkably predominant. 
 
 In composition, as in common life, extremes, 
 however pernicious, are not always so distant from 
 each other as upon superficial inspection we may be 
 apt to conclude. Thus, in the latter, an obstinate 
 
adherence to particular opinions is contracted by 
 observing the consequences of volatility ; indifference 
 arises from despising the softer feelings of tenderness ; 
 pride takes its origin from the disdain of compliance ; 
 and the first step to avarice is the desire of avoiding 
 profusion. 
 
 The mind of an author receives an early bias from 
 prepossession; and the dislike he conceives to a par- 
 ticular fault, precipitates him at once to the opposite 
 extreme. For this reason, perhaps, it is, that young 
 authors, who possess some degree of genius, affect on 
 occasions a florid manner, and clothe their sentiments 
 in the dress of imagery. 
 
 To them nothing appears so disgusting as a dry 
 and lifeless uniformity ; and in the place of pursuing 
 a middle course, betwixt the extremes of profusion and 
 sterility, they are only solicitous to shun that error of 
 which prejudice has shewn the most distorted resem- 
 blance. 
 
 It is, indeed, but seldom that nature adjusts the 
 intellectual balance so accurately as not to throw an 
 unequal weight into either of the scales. Such, like- 
 wise, is the situation of man, that in the first stage of 
 
life the predominant faculty engrosses his attention, 
 as the predominant passion influences his actions. 
 
 Instead, therefore, of strengthening the weaker 
 power, by assisting its exertions and by supplying its 
 defects, he is adding force to that which was originally 
 too strong; and the same reflection which discovers 
 his error, shews him, likewise, the difficulty of cor- 
 recting it. Even in those minds in which the dis- 
 tribution was primarily equal, education, habit, or 
 some early bias, is ready to break that perfect poise 
 which is necessary to constitute consummate excel- 
 lence. 
 
 The only rational excuse I can offer for this un- 
 called for (and perhaps unread) performance, is, that 
 the Muse made her appearance when the moon was at 
 the full, and we are aware, that at that time all those 
 who are in any way considered to be " non compos" 
 may be allowed the indulgence of certain little innocent 
 acts of indiscretion during its continuance. 
 
 " There is a pleasure in poetic pains, 
 Which only poets know. The shifts and turns, 
 The expedients and inventions, multiform, 
 To which the mind resorts, in chase of terms, 
 
Though apt, yet coy, and difficult to win 
 
 To arrest the fleeting- images that fill 
 The mirror of the mind, and hold them fast, 
 And force them sit, till he has pencilled off 
 A faithful likeness of the form he views ; 
 Then to dispose his copies with such art, 
 That each may find its most propitious light. 
 And shine by situation hardly less 
 Than by the labour and the skill it cost, — 
 Are occupations of the poet's mind 
 So pleasing, and that steal away the thought, 
 With such address, from themes of sad import. 
 That, lost in his own musings, happy man ! 
 He feels the anxieties of life, denied 
 Their wonted entertainment, all retire- 
 Such joys has he that sings. But ah ! not such, 
 Or seldom such, the hearers of his song. 
 Fastidious, or else listless, or perhaps 
 Aware of nothing arduous in a task 
 They never undertook, they little note 
 His dangers or escapes, and haply find 
 There least amusement where he found the most.'" 
 
 Cowper, vol. i. p. 52. 
 
 If some there are who may not think it at all 
 essential that charity should be ranked among their 
 other virtues, and who may feel disposed to blame this 
 little innocent, let me entreat of them to remember the 
 following couplet, 
 
" Be to her faults a little blind, 
 
 But to her virtues very kind." — Padlock. 
 
 to consider that the hours which may have been 
 dedicated to this work might have been less profitably 
 employed than in writing poetical nonsense ; and that 
 the spring time must precede the summer of perfection : 
 therefore, 
 
 If bad and good in every page you find, 
 Reject the bad, the good but bear in mind. 
 
 They have amused some of my leisure hours ; and 
 I hope will prove equally fortunate in providing 
 pleasure for my friends. 
 
 " The fair shall read of ardours, sighs, and tears, 
 All that a lover hopes, and all he fears ; 
 Hence, too, what passions in his bosom rise, 
 What dawning gladness sparkles in his eyes, 
 When first the fair one, piteous of his fate, 
 Tired of her scorn, and vanquished of her hate, 
 With willing mind is bounteous to relent, 
 And blushing beauteous, smiles her kind consent ! 
 Love's passion here in each extreme is shewn, 
 In Charlotte's smile, or in Maria's frown." 
 
 Allan Ramsay. 
 
 Poetry is so closely allied to melody, and melody 
 so intimately united with poetry, that to some of the 
 
following songs I have composed the music,* and 
 have endeavoured not to sacrifice sense to sound. 
 
 " Man is both a poet and musician by nature : the 
 same impulse which prompted the enthusiastic poetic 
 style, prompted a certain melody, or modulation of 
 sound, suited to the emotions of joy or grief, of ad- 
 miration, love, or anger. 
 
 " There is a power in sound, which, partly from 
 nature, partly from habit and association, makes such 
 pathetic impressions on the fancy, as delight even the 
 most wild barbarians. 
 
 " Music and poetry, therefore, had the same rise; 
 they were prompted by the same occasions ; they were 
 united in song ; and as long as they continued united, 
 they tended, without doubt, mutually to heighten and 
 exalt each other's power. Minos and Thales sang to 
 the lyre the laws which they composed ; and till the 
 
 * In fact, had I not composed what in my estimation was a pretty- 
 air, and been unable to find words which could with propriety be 
 adapted to it, this work would never have been undertaken ; but un- 
 willing to part with my pet, I sat down, determined to put together a 
 few rhymes for my own song : they happened to be perused by those 
 whose commendations were highly valued — and I accordingly endea- 
 voured to be equally successful in others. 
 
age immediately preceding that of Herodotus, history 
 had appeared in no other form than that of poetical 
 tales." 
 
 " Blest pair of sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy, 
 Sphere-born harmonious sisters, voice and verse, 
 Wed your divine souls, and mixed power employ." — Milton. 
 
 " Among the Celtic tribes, in Gaul, Britain, and 
 Ireland, we know in what admiration their bards were 
 held, and how great an influence they possessed over 
 the people. They were both poets and musicians, as 
 all the first poets, in every age and nation, were — they 
 were always near the person of the chief or sovereign, 
 they recorded all his great exploits, they were employed 
 as the ambassadors between contending tribes, and 
 their persons were held sacred." — Blair's Lectures, 
 vol. ii. 
 
 " When poetry and music are united in their 
 proper ends, there are few secondary accomplishments 
 which do truer honour even to the highest stations. 
 
 " The poet's and musician's office cannot probably be 
 again united in their full and general power. For, in 
 their present refined state, either of their arts, sepa- 
 rately considered, is of such extent, that, although 
 
they may incidentally meet in one person, they cannot 
 often be found together. The arts, in their present 
 refined and complicated state, separately demand such 
 continued application and various qualities, as seldom 
 meet in the same person. It is the performer's pro- 
 vince, therefore, in this state of separation, to conform 
 to the genius of the poem and music. As the musician 
 is subordinate to the poet, so the performer is sub- 
 ordinate to both." — Brown's Dissertation on the 
 Union of Poetry and Music. 
 
 Every one has a right to his own opinion ; and 
 mine is, that singing is merely the art of speaking 
 beautifully: but, unfortunately, few of those who say 
 they sing, ever give evidence of their ability to speak. 
 
 Those who fancy that beautiful singing is displayed 
 in the rapid execution of difficult, and never-to-be- 
 gotten-through passages, and that they are deserving 
 of praise in proportion as they disguise a song, are 
 wofully mistaken — all animals make SOME noise. 
 
 " Tres mihi convivse prope dissentire videntur, 
 Poscentes vario multum diversa palato. 
 Quid dem ? Quid non dem ? Renuis tu, quod jubet alter ; 
 Quod petis, id sane est invisum acidumque duobus." — Hor. 
 
XXXVI PREFACE. 
 
 " How various taste ! what you may disapprove, 
 
 I relish ; and what I dislike, you love. 
 
 Say what, to please each palate, can I find ? — 
 
 Herculean task ! to choose for all mankind." 
 
 Twiss's Miscellanies. 
 A friend of mine told me the following story: — 
 " Being at a small party where music was introduced, 
 in the course of the evening a young lady, who was 
 really an extremely good Italian singer, sat down to 
 the piano-forte; and having given general satisfaction, 
 my friend approaching with his unfortunate compli- 
 ment, begged her to inform him what beautiful Italian 
 air she had just been singing, and finished by saying, 
 that in his life he had never heard a ' Bravura' 
 given with better effect. The subject of his praise, with 
 a smile (as Mrs. Radcliffe says) of ineffable sweetness, 
 replied, ' Bless me, it was a simple English ballad! !!' " 
 Too often do the finest songs lose half their effect 
 by the silly pride of those who think more of shewing 
 ofT themselves than of attending to the original 
 melody, or of giving expression to the words ; and 
 thus both poet and composer must constantly suffer for 
 the vanity of the singer. The original music is in- 
 undated with unnecessary ornaments, and the words of 
 
the poor poet may be considered as " lost, stolen, or 
 strayed." I remember a very clever, but eccentric, old 
 gentleman, having once been asked at a party, by the 
 
 lady of the house, if he would like to hear Mr. sing 
 
 a song: his reply was, — " If it's all the same to the 
 young gentleman, madam, I'd much rather NOT." 
 
 Who can understand — who can feel a song, unless 
 the articulation is distinct? We can only judge of the 
 beauty by hearing the words of a song — if the latter is 
 not adapted to the former, we are alike incompetent to 
 assign our approbation of either. Certainly might we 
 be led to the conclusion, that as the singer did not 
 afford to us an opportunity of understanding the 
 subject of his performance, the words of his song were 
 so abominably bad that he was ashamed of them; 
 and, consequently, mumbled out his task as indis- 
 tinctly as he possibly could. 
 
 We should all vote him mad who played, as an 
 accompaniment to the ballad of " Home, sweet Home," 
 the quick air of the " Banners of Blue," — yet no notice 
 is taken when a singer, sitting down to the piano- 
 forte, rises from it without having uttered one in- 
 telligible sound ! ! ! 
 
In my opinion, one is equally as absurd as the other ; 
 but that which we hear every day becomes no novelty, 
 and most assuredly, " custom is second nature." Sen- 
 sibility of heart, joined to simplicity of taste, are the 
 grand requisites for a ballad-singer. Who would wish 
 to lose one breath of those beautiful ballads written for 
 the Irish Melodies, by T. Moore, Esq. ? — who, whatever 
 pleasure he might derive from the music, would not 
 acknowledge that the feast was imperfect, that the 
 charm was incomplete, unless wound up by the dis- 
 tinct delivery of that poet's harmonious numbers ? 
 
 There are few to be found so insensible, and I may 
 even say, so inhuman, as when good poetry is 
 justly set to music, not in some degree to feel the 
 force of so amiable a union. 
 
 To the Muse's friends it is a force irresistible, and 
 penetrates into the deepest recesses of the soul. 
 
 ' Pectus inaniter angit, 
 
 Irritat, mulcet, falsis terroribus implet." 
 
 Horace, Epist. 1. lib. ii. 
 These two arts can never be so powerful singly as 
 when they are properly united — yet must it be re- 
 membered, that poetry must ever have the precedence ; 
 
its utility, as well as dignity, being by far the more 
 considerable. 
 
 With regard to the Irish Melodies, (I speak of the 
 music), although perfectly willing to afford them their 
 just meed of praise, — and many of them are certainly 
 very beautiful, — I still think it would not be extremely 
 difficult to procure many a perfect ballad from our old 
 English composers — ballads which should be esteemed 
 second to those of no country ; for the soil of England 
 is, and has been, quite as productive in the com- 
 position of the simple unadorned ballad, as her sister 
 land ; and I hope this bold assertion will neither 
 wound 
 
 " Erin's honour, nor Erin's pride." 
 
 Yet, methinks, it may savour of temerity, for so young 
 a man as the author to declare his own " ipse dixit" in 
 such unqualified terms of assurance ; but, nevertheless, 
 I will not hesitate to affirm, that the musical library 
 left me by my late father contains many most 
 beautiful gems of melody, to which, if words were 
 adapted as sweet and soft as those by Mr. Moore, all 
 would listen with as much attention, and hear with as 
 much pleasure. 
 
Enough, however, of music, and what should be its 
 office. 
 
 Trembling with fear, with hope, and expectation, 
 I wait to hear the critic's declaration. 
 
 Welcome as charity to the beggar, so welcome is 
 praise to an author ; and I can assure my readers, that 
 if they may suppose any of these poems deserving of 
 praise, and feel disposed to make me richer in my own 
 opinion than I was previous to their publication, 
 
 " The smallest donation will be thankfully received." 
 
 If, on the contrary, the amusement of my own hours 
 has been at the expense of my reader's time ; or, by the 
 composition of these poems, a tax has been imposed 
 upon my friends, I will make that only one atonement 
 in my power, and promise 
 
 NEVER TO WRITE AGAIN. 
 
 W. B. KITCHINER. 
 
 Wilton Crescent, 
 July, 1829. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 DEDICATION , v 
 
 ADDRESS TO MY PEN X 
 
 PREFACE xi 
 
 to the memory of my father 1 
 
 my child ! o what a name is thine ! 3 
 
 speak ! speak that word once more, my dear. . 5 
 
 britannia, the land that i love 7 
 
 what shape the angels wear, my lass 9 
 
 such a bright colour 10 
 
 i love to gaze on. the still twilight 11 
 
 when through life unblest we rove 12 
 
 tell me, my dear 13 
 
 have you seen the sunbeams play? 15 
 
 some artful belles 16 
 
 she wept in silence 17 
 
 well, where's the sin ? 18 
 
 o then think me not 19 
 
xlii CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE HEART'S LAST THROB 20 
 
 BEAUTY, I'VE HEARD . , 21 
 
 ON SOME GRASSY COUCH 24 
 
 OFT MUST THE DISMAL TONGUE OF TIME . 25 
 
 THERE IS NOT, BELIEVE ME 26 
 
 WHO DARED RESIST? 27 
 
 YOU ASK ME WHY 28 
 
 AS SOME DARK METEOR 29 
 
 THAT STRAIN RECALLS OUR FORMER DAYS 30 
 
 NO MORE WILL THE LAYS 32 
 
 MY LITTLE BEAUTY, CAN YOU TELL ME ? 33 
 
 SLOWLY AND SILENTLY TEARS TRICKLED DOWN .... 34 
 
 POOR LOST MARIA ! WHEREFORE GRIEVE? 35 
 
 NO, INDEED, I CANT HAVE YOU ! 36 
 
 FILL THE BOWL 37 
 
 O NO ! THE SPELL IS BROKEN 38 
 
 AND DOST THOU LOVE ME ? 40 
 
 HOW OFT, WHEN MEM'RY BRINGS THE THOUGHT .... 41 
 
 BY THE FRESH MOSSY SIDE , 42 
 
 O ! THEN BID ME NOT SPEAK OF. THE PAST 43 
 
 IN DOUBT, BEWILDERED, AND AMAZED 44 
 
 THOUGH THE COURSE OF LIFE WE KNOW NOT 45 
 
 DEEP IN A CAVERNED WOOD THERE LIES 46 
 
 THE LOW'RING DARK CLOUDS 47 
 
CONTEXTS. xliii 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE VIOLET IX BLOOM . . 48 
 
 WHEN FAR FROM THE LAND 49 
 
 THE TRUMPET SOUNDS 50 
 
 THE EYE THAT BEAMS WHEN I AM NIGH 52 
 
 WHO CAN WONDER FEW BELIEVE ? 54 
 
 SOME DOUBTS, MY LOVE 55 
 
 NOW GREEN ENCHANTMENT 56 
 
 IF TO LOVE IS A SIN , 59 
 
 HARK ! I HEAR THE DEEP-TONED BELL 60 
 
 ALL MY ROSES ARE DROOPING 62 
 
 YES ! GIVE ME TO KNOW 63 
 
 SAY, LADY, WHEREFORE DOST THOU WATCH ? 64 
 
 HAVE YOU NOT SEEN, AS SLOW DECLINES AWAY ? ... 67 
 
 LYDIA, MY WOUNDED HEART RESTORE 68 
 
 LIKE THE ONE PRETTY ROSE OF THE VALE 69 
 
 O'ER HILLS AND HIGH MOUNTAINS 71 
 
 THE TIME IS LIKE MY THOUGHTS 72 
 
 A BIRD IN THE HAND 73 
 
 THE WANTON CUPID, WHEN A CHILD 74 
 
 1 LOVED THEE LIVING 75 
 
 LIFE IS A DREAM OF WEAL AND WO 76 
 
 WHEN THE HEAVENS ARE BRIGHT 78 
 
 O LET THE PRESENT HOURS EFFACE ! 80 
 
 BY THE VOWS ONCE SPOKEN 82 
 
xliv CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 soft music once from slumber woke 84 
 
 to my wife 85 
 
 fill high with wine 86 
 
 as the language 87 
 
 'tis love, love, love 88 
 
 there is a star 89 
 
 tell me, may i meet thee there ? 91 
 
 though this life may be chequered 92 
 
 come over the lea 93 
 
 the bright tints in the bow 95 
 
 when juno, supplicating 96 
 
 come, range with me 97 
 
 come, sing me the song that i love 98 
 
 sweet contemplation 99 
 
 i've seen in pretty julia's eye 101 
 
 forth to the world 102 
 
 when grief may fill my heart 103 
 
 the harp which once, in happy times 104 
 
 you saucy little jade 105 
 
 i saw thee first in youth's gay morn 106 
 
 there was an eye 107 
 
 isabella has charms 180 
 
 what is love ? 109 
 
 FAIR LADY, WHO COM'sT HERE Ill 
 
CONTENTS. xlv 
 
 PAGE 
 
 DO NOT FORGET ME WHEN AWAY 113 
 
 REJOICE, REJOICE, FOR THE SONS OF THE BRAVE. ... 114 
 
 THE FAULTS OF THE FAIR SEX 115 
 
 TO ME NO PAST THOUGHT 116 
 
 WHEN THY SOFT WARBLINGS 117 
 
 REMEMBER THEE ! YES 118 
 
 '.MIDST ALL THE GAY PLEASURES 119 
 
 I FEEL THAT DEATH IS ON ME 120 
 
 ALL WAS SILENT 121 
 
 SHOULD SOME GAY AND LUCKY LOVER 123 
 
 LOOK AT BELINDA 124 
 
 COME, THEN, LOVE ME 125 
 
 THOUGH ALL THE WORLD SAY 126 
 
 CONFESS THEE AT THE SHRINE OF LOVE 127 
 
 THE POETS SAY 128 
 
 I FEEL UNHAPPY FOR A CAUSE 129 
 
 FAREWELL ! FAREWELL ! 130 
 
 THOUGH THE POETS MAY SING 131 
 
 WHAT AN AWKWARD PREDICAMENT 132 
 
 SOME ANCIENT SAID 133 
 
 HEARD YE THAT PLAINTIVE, MELANCHOLY MOAN ?. . 134 
 
 HAIL TO THIS SACRED DAY ! 135 
 
 POOR JANE IS CRAZED 139 
 
 IT IS NOT THAT I DOUBT THY LOVE 140 
 
xlvi CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 LIST TO THE SOUND 141 
 
 I HAVE BASK'd IN THE SUNSHINE 142 
 
 WHEN THE WINTER OF AGE 143 
 
 IF 'tis WICKED TO GAZE 144 
 
 WHO IS HE RIDES SO MERRILY ? 145 
 
 I LOVE YE IS NOT THAT ENOUGH ? 149 
 
 A LOVELY ROSE ONE SUMMER'S DAY 150 
 
 SPITEFUL AS ENVY'S SELF 151 
 
 CLARINDA'S AGE IS FIFTY YEARS, OR SO 152 
 
 IN VAIN THE TONGUE EACH TENDER FEELING 153 
 
 IF ANY PLANT THERE IS THAT BLOWS 154 
 
 THAT LITTLE DARLING, FANNY, FINDS 155 
 
 WINTER APPROACHES WITH HIS IRON WAND 156 
 
 WHO CARES FOR WHAT THE WORLD MAY SAY? 157 
 
 WHAT CAUSE HAVE I FOR HATING YOU ? 159 
 
 AWAY, THOU FALSE ONE! 160 
 
 COME KISS ME, PET 161 
 
 SOME SAY EXPERIENCE 162 
 
 ERE THE BLOOM OF YOUTH IS WASTED 163 
 
 MY DEAREST CHARMER ! I WOULD GLADLY PAY .... 164 
 
 SO APT A SCHOLAR IN THE ART OF LOVE 165 
 
 "NO," IS A WORD BY WOMEN OFTEN SAID 166 
 
 WHEN OLD TIME WAS YOUNG 167 
 
 THE DEMON WHO SO MADLY DEALT 168 
 
CONTEXTS. xlvii 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THOUGH APOLLO, AS LAMP-LIGHTER 169 
 
 NO STAR WAS SEEN 170 
 
 AS ALL HEAVEN IS PRESENT 173 
 
 TRULY TO LOVE THEE, DEAREST, WERE A SIN 174 
 
 'TIS A PITY THAT CUPID SHOULD TURN PROM HIS 
 
 COURT 175 
 
 I CANNOT, PHYLLIS, ANY LONGER WINK 176 
 
 ROSA, WHENE'ER I TOUCH THY HAND 177 
 
 FANNY, YOU FOOLISH THING, I SAY 178 
 
 HAIL ! EMPRESS OF THE SKIES 179 
 
 GOD OF THE SKIES 180 
 
 FIRST ATTRIBUTE OF GOODNESS 182 
 
 THROUGH THE FRINGED CASEMENT 184 
 
 AS ONCE, WHEN GAZING ON THE FACE 185 
 
 LAURA, WHAT SAY YOU ? 186 
 
 O! WHAT ARE THE JOYS OF THE GAY AND THE 
 
 GREAT? 187 
 
 HAS ALL THY FULSOME FLATt'rY GONE FOR 
 
 NAUGHT? 188 
 
 THYLLIS, LIVELY, GAY, AND YOUNG 189 
 
 THOUGH ALL THE GRACES ART CAN GIVE 190 
 
 JULIA, MY PRETTY LITTLE PRUDE 191 
 
 PLEDGE ME, LOVE, WITH BURNING KISSES 192 
 
 SUCH MAGIC INFLUENCE IN THOSE EYES 193 
 
xlviii CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 EACH SOFTER EMOTION 194 
 
 THE SUMMER IS GONE 195 
 
 ABSENCE OUR HEARTS MAY SEVER 196 
 
 O LOUISA ! BELIEVE ME 198 
 
 LAURA, SO THRIFTY OF HER TIME 200 
 
 YOU LITTLE STINGY, SELFISH THING 201 
 
POEM S. 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF MY FATHER.- 
 
 Then adieu to the hopes that in life's early day 
 Around my young fancy so beauteously shone ; 
 
 For the Spirit, alas ! which illumined my way, 
 
 Now in darkness hath set, is extinguish 'd, and gone: 
 
 * These verses are but a poor and insufficient offering to the 
 memory of the Best of Fathers ; and any words of mine can indeed give 
 but a very weak description of those feelings which have always pre- 
 dominated in my mind, and will remain undiminished, for him, who 
 was snatched from this world so suddenly. The Monument that I have 
 erected, as alike a testimony of my love as of my respect, will, I hope, 
 prove a more lasting memorial of my devoted affection ; and even if this 
 had not been undertaken, he would have perpetuated his own name — 
 his amiable, unoffending disposition, rich in the milk of human kind- 
 ness — his great mind — in the many, and various works he has left 
 behind him: my Father has indeed erected his own Monument. My 
 only prayer is — God bless him ! I know that 
 
 " I ne'er shall look upon his like AGAIN." 
 
Whose reproof was all kindness, whose precepts were truth, 
 The companion, protector, and friend of my youth — 
 Oh ! the Parent I mourn, with affection could blend 
 The dear name of a Father with that of the Friend. 
 
 For the Spirit departed, the Being no more, 
 
 For the Friend that I prized, and the Father I've lost, 
 Other hearts may chance grieve, and for their loss deplore, 
 
 But the heart that best loved, is the heart that bleeds most. 
 Then when life's wintry noon may approach unto me, 
 
 When the calm, silent sleep of chill death may be mine, 
 Do I pray that thy son may be liken'd to — Thee, 
 
 That the name I then leave may be loved as was — Thine. 
 
MY CHILD! O WHAT A NAME IS THINE! 
 
 My Child ! O what a name is thine 
 
 To make me love thee with my inmost soul, 
 
 To know and feel that thou art mine : 
 Lord of thy infant love without control, 
 
 I leave to kings their pow'r and pride, 
 
 Poor without thee, possessing all beside. 
 
 First pledge of love, may I in thee 
 The virtues of thy mother daily trace, 
 
 Who gave thee life, and form'd for me 
 
 Fresh joys, when looking on thy smiling face : 
 
 Propitious prove thy welcome birth, 
 
 Sweet babe, that called these fond emotions forth ! 
 
How blest will be my future life, 
 
 Watching with anxious care thy infant years, 
 Guiding thy steps with her — my wife, 
 
 Thy guardian genius through this vale of tears, 
 Gazing on every opening grace, 
 Thy mother's miniature in mind as face. 
 
 Then bless thee, babe ! and may we find 
 Goodness with grace in thee united shine, 
 
 Strengthen those holy ties, that bind 
 
 Thy mother's heart in sacred faith to mine ; 
 
 Live, but as years depart away, 
 
 To soothe the sadness of our slow decay. 
 
SPEAK! SPEAK THAT WORD ONCE MORE, MY DEAR. 
 
 Speak ! speak that word once more, my dear, 
 
 Say not so soon farewell ; 
 Tis cruel thus to fly, my dear, 
 
 Leave one who loves so well : 
 List, love, to me before we part, 
 
 Let sighs thy pity move : 
 If nought avails, confess, my heart, 
 
 This, this can ne'er be love.* 
 
 * Cupid is so general a favourite, and love a subject of such " con- 
 stant requisition by the poets," that my case will not be at all singular 
 if, like others, I also endeavour to enlist the little gentleman on my 
 side. With me, I am free to confess, he is a great favourite, for I 
 am deeply in his debt. Therefore, if it be thought that he has been 
 brought forward too often in this volume, let it be considered as pro- 
 ceeding from a good motive. All will allow, that " one good turn deserves 
 another.'''' 
 
Thou, thou art all the world to me, 
 
 Thee I must still adore ; 
 Deprived of hope, unloved by thee, 
 
 E'en home is home no more : 
 Forget thee — never! though we part, 
 
 My constancy shall prove, 
 And nature whisper to my heart, 
 
 This, this indeed is love. 
 
BRITANNIA, THE LAND THAT I LOVE.* 
 
 The land that I love, the land that I love, 
 
 The land of fair Liberty's birth ; 
 Whose heroes so oft victoriously prove 
 Is first of the kingdoms on earth : 
 Tis the land whose defenders at Venus's shrine 
 Can the wreath of affection with honour entwine, 
 'Tis the isle of the ocean most happy, most free, 
 Where in purity flourishes Liberty's tree ; 
 
 * England has fairly won for herself the proud title of " mistress of 
 the world ;" and the lines which here record her hard-earned praise, 
 are but a weak attempt to describe those blessings which have been 
 bestowed upon her by a wise and all-seeing Providence. The island on 
 which Britannia has raised her glorious throne is, indeed, worthy of 
 being called, " First of the kingdoms on earth." Long may the flag of 
 liberty wave over her hospitable shores ; and may the bright sun of 
 prosperity never cease to shine on the " Land that I love !" 
 
The bright island whose peace no foes can endanger; 
 The wanderer's refuge, the home of the stranger ; 
 Whose conquests so famed are recorded in story ; 
 The cradle of freedom, the birth-place of glory ; — 
 Britannia ! the land that I love. 
 
 The land that I love, the land that I love, 
 
 Is fear'd by the nations around ; 
 Her lion at rest, his strength to improve, 
 Her heroes with victory crown'd. 
 From old Athens and Rome when dear Liberty fled, 
 There Oppression's dread standard was reared in her stead ; 
 But with wings dropping gladness and joy-giving smile, 
 A fresh temple she raised in this famed, happy isle ; 
 She declared this her home, in our isle would she reign, 
 For its sons would the cause of fair Freedom maintain ; 
 And the bold hearts of Anglia will ever preserve 
 The regard of the goddess, the cause love to serve 
 Of Britannia, the land that I love. 
 
WHAT SHAPE THE ANGELS WEAR, MY LASS. 
 
 What shape the angels wear, my lass, 
 
 Is surely known to you ; 
 If not — consult the looking-glass, 
 
 An angel's form you'll view. 
 
SUCH A BRIGHT COLOUR DOTH THE ROSE DIFFUSE. 
 
 Such a bright colour doth the rose diffuse 
 
 When opening buds her beauteous self disclose. 
 
 Yet moist with dew, while on each leaf a tear 
 Of night may like a pearl dissolved appear. 
 
 Yet search through nature's world, you still must seek 
 To find the rose which blooms upon her cheek : 
 
 Less are compared with greater ; and these seem 
 To blush like her — not she to blush as them. 
 
I LOVE TO GAZE ON THE STILL TWILIGHT. 
 
 I love to gaze on the still twilight, 
 
 To watch the evening star ; 
 I love to muse when the moon shines bright, 
 
 And clouds are absent far. 
 
 To think that the star, which seen by me, 
 
 In distant climes may shine ; 
 The twilight I love, is prized by thee, 
 
 That my night may be thine. 
 
WHEN THROUGH LIFE UNBLEST WE ROVK 
 
 ' When through life unblest we rove, 
 Losing all that made life dear," 
 Leaving all we fondly love, 
 
 How we value friendship's tear ! 
 
 Like to diamond drops of dew 
 Are the tears in friendship's eye ; 
 
 When we look our last adieu, 
 
 Hearts speak most in one soft sigh. 
 
TELL ME, MY DEAR, AND TELL ME TRUE. 
 
 Tell me, my dear, and tell me true, 
 
 The reason of those tears ; 
 Has love thus caused thy grief to flow, 
 
 Or want of faith, these fears ? 
 
 Those eyes should beam with dear delight, 
 No pang should rend that breast, 
 
 Thy spotless life should know no night, 
 Nor cares disturb thy rest. 
 
 In one soft whisper now to me 
 
 Impart thy cares, thy grief; 
 Let feeling such as mine for thee, 
 
 Find out for thee relief. 
 
Young Love, they say, was born above ; 
 
 And when he deigns to shine 
 On mortals here, must ever prove 
 
 His virtues stol'n from thine. 
 
 Then dry those eyes, my gentle dear, 
 And deck thy cheeks with smiles ; 
 
 Give not again to love a tear, 
 But laugh at Cupid's wiles. 
 
 Pursue this course, if thou art wise ; 
 
 Preserve the flower unblown ; 
 Away with grief — away with sighs — 
 
 Make happiness thine own. 
 
HAVE YOU SEEN THE SUNBEAMS PLAY? 
 
 Have you seen the sunbeams play 
 O'er a sea of heavenly blue ? 
 
 Bright as these, in youth's gay day, 
 Life's fairy colours ope to view. 
 
 Have you seen the sky o'ercast — 
 Each golden ray of sunshine gone ? 
 
 Like to these the wintry blast 
 
 Of age, when squalid care comes on. 
 
SOME ARTFUL BELLES WITH SO MUCH GRACE. 
 
 Some artful belles with so much grace 
 Disguise each charming feature, 
 
 That we too sure behold the face 
 As made by Art — not Nature. 
 
SHE WEPT IN SILENCE, AND NONE KNEW HER GRIEF. 
 
 She wept in silence, and none knew her grief, 
 At least the cause, save but her own sweet self : 
 
 Her simple story, true as it was brief, 
 
 Rehearsed a tale of wickedness and wealth. 
 
 Her father's friend the only one she had, 
 
 Save me : O had she known none else beside ! 
 
 He woo'd and won ; then left and drove her mad ; 
 And losing him she loved, she droop'd and died. 
 
WELL, WHERE'S THE SIN OF KISSING, THEN ? 
 
 Well, where's the sin of kissing, then ? 
 
 I, faith, do not know it ; 
 But may, my dear, believe it when 
 
 You're disposed to shew it. 
 
 Yet, if I read aright those eyes, 
 
 They surely answer this : 
 Tis folly to be Over Wise 
 
 Where Ignorance is Bliss. 
 
O THEN THINK ME NOT THOUGHTLESS, OR FREE. 
 
 O then think me not thoughtless, or free 
 From the sorrows I cautiously hide ; 
 
 For my soul, like the blast-stricken tree, 
 Is destroy'd in its beauty and pride. 
 
 Like the one single leaf left alone 
 
 In its mourning, to grieve for the rest ; 
 
 So the friends of my youth are all gone, 
 So my spirit with grief is oppress'd. 
 
 Then still blame not, — for nought can be found 
 
 To relieve or to soften my pain ; 
 Nor can this world now heal sorrow's wound, 
 
 Or bring life's first delusions again. 
 
THE HEART'S LAST THROB HAS EVER STOPT. 
 
 The heart's last throb has ever stopt, 
 Life's pulse remains no more ; 
 
 Hope bends and weeps in sadness wrapt, 
 For that which is before. 
 
 The look — that last cold look — has fled, 
 Death reigns a monarch here ; 
 
 Scowling, he views the helpless dead, 
 His throne the gloomy bier! 
 
BEAUTY, I'VE HEARD, ONE SUMMER'S DAY. 
 
 Beauty, I've heard, one summer's day 
 Went forth to roam right early, 
 
 And met young Cupid on her way, 
 Who loved the maid so dearly. 
 
 Harsh Fate would have it they should meet, 
 
 To quarrel with each other ; 
 To taste the sour as well as sweet — 
 
 Find love was not all clover. 
 
 In angry words they fell at odds, 
 
 And thus reviled each other : 
 Said Cupid, " I am of the gods, 
 
 But you wait on my mother. 
 
' What pow'r you have is lent by me ; 
 For truth must oft discover, 
 When Love 's away, alas, for thee ! 
 Thou canst not find a lover." 
 
 ' Away, fond boy," then Beauty said, 
 " We know that thou art blind ; 
 That all men, too, may boast a head, 
 Though very few a mind. 
 
 " 'Twas I begot thee, mortals know, 
 And call'd thee Youth's Desire ; 
 I made thy quiver and thy bow — 
 Thy wings to kindle fire." 
 
 The angry urchin flew away, 
 
 In pet to Vulcan pray'd, 
 His shafts with scorn he'd tip that day, 
 
 To punish the proud maid. 
 
Poor Beauty ever since hath been 
 But courted for an hour : 
 
 To love one day is now a sin 
 'Gainst Cupid and his pow'r. 
 
ON SOME GRASSY COUCH NOW LAID. 
 
 On some grassy couch now laid, 
 Shelter'd by the friendly shade, 
 Let us drink all sorrow dead, 
 Love shall be our Ganymede. 
 
 This life, like a wheel, runs round ; 
 Ere we live, we're under ground : 
 Fate decrees, and mortals must 
 Moulder in their kindred dust. 
 
 Wise ones, like to me and you, 
 Old Time's wings with wine bedew - 
 Court, like us, each pleasure now, 
 Ere they taste of those below. 
 
OFT MUST THE DISMAL TONGUE OF TIME. 
 
 Oft must the dismal tongue of time 
 
 To scenes now past recall us, 
 And with our present thoughts must chime 
 
 For what may still befall us : 
 If fate's dark curtain we could move, 
 
 And man his mind could tutor, 
 How awful would the prospect prove 
 
 To gaze upon the future ! 
 
 But first of nature's works, proud man, 
 
 In wisdom's ways a child is — 
 Not e'en the present hour can scan, 
 
 Too oft from thought beguiled is : 
 Yet we, from what is past, may learn 
 
 The world is not all laughter, 
 And not too late our thoughts may turn 
 
 To what may come hereafter. 
 
THERE IS NOT, BELIEVE ME, WHATE'ER 
 THEY DECREE. 
 
 There is not, believe me, whate'er they decree, 
 Such a thing- in this world as Perfection ; 
 
 All, all have their faults, e'en from Adam to me, 
 And improve, too, by kindly Correction. 
 
 So far, at the shrine of thy love, will I make 
 
 This candid, ingenuous confession ; 
 Still trusting, my fair one, that you also take 
 
 From your penitent this little lesson : — 
 
 If men have their failings, to this truth agree, 
 That sweet women are not Quite Perfection : 
 
 All, all have their faults, e'en from Eve unto thee., 
 And ye all want a Little Direction. 
 
WHO DARED RESIST THAT BEAUTEOUS FACE? 
 
 Who dared resist that beauteous face, 
 Nor think thee first of all the throng ? 
 
 The blind to ev'ry other grace 
 Must feel the magic of thy song. 
 
YOU ASK ME WHY I SEND YOU, DEAR. 
 
 You ask me why I send you, dear, 
 This firstling of the infant year — 
 This primrose ? why 'tis sent to you, 
 Its lovely leaves impearl'd with dew? — 
 To whisper in those anxious ears 
 The sweets of love are bathed in tears. 
 
AS SOME DARK METEOR IN THE SKY. 
 
 As some dark meteor in the sky, 
 The frown appears in woman's eye, — 
 Where every thing on earth should meet 
 That's either pretty, chaste, or sweet. 
 
 let me view there heaven's own light, 
 Serenely soft, and purely bright, — 
 On eyes from envy free, or strife, 
 I'd gaze with rapture all my life. 
 
THAT STRAIN RECALLS OUR FORMER DAYS. 
 
 That strain recalls our former days, 
 
 And gives me hope again ; 
 My heart its favourite song obeys, 
 
 It loves that low, wild strain. 
 
 In youth we sang it o'er and o'er, 
 When joy attuned the strings ; 
 
 Then sing the song I loved, once more 
 Youth's fairy days it brings. 
 
 You sang it once so soft and low, 
 When daylight had declined, 
 
 And Sol departing sadly slow, 
 Blushed to leave thee behind. 
 
Then sing the song I love, once more 
 Youth's fairy days it brings ; 
 
 For then we sang it o'er and o'er, 
 And joy attuned the strings. 
 
NO MORE WILL THE LAYS. 
 
 No more will the lays 
 
 Of our former days, 
 Like a beam of bright sunshine be o'er us ; 
 
 The minstrel's harp now 
 
 In dust is laid low, 
 And we've nought but his mem'ry before us. 
 
 Would death take a bribe, 
 
 Or his demon tribe, 
 With the wealth of the world we'd implore him, 
 
 Of men that had died, 
 
 To send back the pride, 
 And again to his kindred restore him. 
 
MY LITTLE BEAUTY, CAN YOU TELL ME? 
 
 My little beauty, can you tell me, 
 How in the deuce it e'er befell ye, 
 To win and wear so rich a prize 
 From Nature's lottery, as those eyes ? 
 
 Sometime, my girl, when Venus sleeping, 
 Methinks ye learnt the art of peeping ; 
 And knowing exchange could not be theft, 
 Stole her eyes, and yours, ye sly one, left. 
 
SLOWLY AND SILENTLY TEARS TRICKLED 
 DOWN. 
 
 Slowly and silently tears trickled down, 
 As we follow'd his corpse to the ground ; 
 Not a sigh was sent forth to declare our own, 
 For our breasts in deep sorrow were bound. 
 
 We laid him down in his cold earthy bed ; 
 And his dark grave we saw closed o'er him ; 
 In sadness we prayed for the soul of the dead, 
 And in silence returned, as we bore him. 
 
POOR LOST MARIA! WHEREFORE GRIEVE? 
 
 Poor lost Maria ! wherefore grieve, 
 For one who such a heart could leave ; 
 
 For one who sold 
 
 Thy love for gold, 
 Forgot thee — for another? 
 Thy grief cannot bring back to thee 
 The past, which lives in memory ; 
 
 But dry those tears, 
 
 Be hushed thy fears, 
 I'll prove to thee a mother. 
 
NO, INDEED, I CAN'T HAVE YOU! SHE CRIED, 
 WITH A SIGH. 
 
 " No, indeed, I can't have you !" she cried, with a sigh, 
 While the light of affection was bright in her eye ; 
 And the word of refusal so faintly expressed, 
 Soon dissolved into " yes," when the question I pressed. 
 
 How ecstatic to me was a moment like this, 
 On her lips when I printed of truth the first kiss ! 
 And how sweet the sensation, when first my heart prest 
 That dear angel of hope, in her innocence drest ! 
 
FILL THE BOWL. 
 
 Fill the bowl, 
 My friends of soul, 
 
 And ev'ry social feeling ! 
 Drink the toast, 
 Old Bacchus' boast, 
 
 Who loves no double dealing. 
 
 Each man fill 
 
 Whate'er he will, 
 But what he fills be drinking ; 
 
 Never pass 
 
 The sparkling glass, 
 Or let the day-light steal in. 
 
O NO ! THE SPELL IS BROKEN. 
 
 O no ! the spell is broken, 
 In friendship we must sever ; 
 
 The fatal word is spoken, 
 We meet again — O never! 
 
 Shall feelings once so cherished, 
 With love, be lost for ever ? 
 
 Yes, these, alas ! have perish'd — 
 We meet again — O ! never ! 
 
 Yet this should not be ours, 
 To feel as now for ever, 
 
 Sure friendship's sunny hours 
 Are not yet lost — O never ! 
 
Can hope's bright torch be burning 
 Thus sadly dim ? never ! 
 
 May former faith returning, 
 Remain with us — for ever! 
 
AND DOST THOU LOVE ME, GENTLE FAIR? 
 
 An d dost thou love me, gentle fair ? 
 
 And tell'st thou this to me ? 
 Has Cupid shot his arrows there — 
 A convert made of thee ? 
 O yes ! he speaks, he breathes in those soft sighs, - 
 The urchin playing, sits in those fair eyes. 
 
 And is thy young heart not thine own ? 
 
 Is this to be believed ? 
 Has love the precious treasure stolen, 
 And I the prize received ? 
 O yes ! and bless thee for that prize so given, 
 Bv me 'tis valued only next to Heaven. 
 
HOW OFT, WHEN MEM'RY BRINGS 
 THE THOUGHT! 
 
 How oft, when mem'ry brings the thought, 
 Of youth's gay scenes around me, 
 
 I sigh, to think those pleasures brought 
 But grief and sorrow round me ! 
 
 How oft, when plucking the wild rose, 
 
 As winding ivy bound it, 
 I've sighed to think that as it grows, 
 
 Sharp thorns should e'er surround it ! 
 
 Yet though in thorns the rose is drest, 
 
 I love that beauteous flower ; 
 And still I love at night to rest, 
 
 And muse in mem'ry's bower. 
 
BY THE FRESH MOSSY SIDE OF A 
 MURMURING STREAM. 
 
 By the fresh mossy side of a murmuring stream, 
 There reclining, I love to indulge nature's dream, 
 There to feel the soft zephyrs as round me they blow, 
 Waft the scent of those flowers which on its banks grow, 
 There to think, as the current glides silently on, 
 So the cares of this life are forgotten and gone. 
 
 Though the boughs of the willow with sorrow may bend, 
 And fit food for reflection the current may lend, — 
 Though some buds of those flowers be drooping away, 
 And the bloom of their beauty be withered and gray, — 
 Not on these will I gaze with sad thoughts of regret, 
 But will hope that life's flow'rs may still bloom for me yet. 
 
! THEN BID ME NOT SPEAK OF THE PAST. 
 
 the\ bid me not speak of the past, 
 Nor recall back to mem'ry with pain 
 
 The sweet dream that has faded so fast, 
 And has left me in darkness again. 
 
 It has gone, and for ever hath fled, 
 While I saw but the dawn of its light, 
 
 How I wish that with it I were dead ; 
 Since my day has now turned into night ! 
 
IN DOUBT, BEWILDERED, AND AMAZED. 
 
 In doubt, bewildered, and amazed, 
 
 On yon proud beauty's face I gazed, 
 
 Determined then my friends to ask 
 
 If Lydia surely wore no mask : 
 
 The question answered, my surprise was fainter — 
 
 She loves the arts, they said, and so turned — Painter. 
 
THOUGH THE COURSE OF LIFE WE KNOW NOT. 
 
 Though the course of life we know not, 
 Yet we wisdom's seeds still sow not ; 
 
 In folly's ways 
 
 We pass our days, 
 And in reason's train we go not. 
 
 Joy's cup has oft been drank by us, 
 And care may be outflanked by us ; 
 
 The past we know — 
 
 The way to go 
 Remains, and must, a blank to us, 
 
DEEP IN A CAVERNED WOOD THERE LIES. 
 
 Deep in a caverned wood there lies, 
 
 A spot to lovers dear, 
 A place where nature never dies, 
 
 And spring reigns through the year. 
 
 A grove where violets ever bloom, 
 
 Where flourishes each flower, 
 Where night ne'er comes with thickened gloom - 
 
 Tis Cupid's fairy bower. 
 
THE LOW'RING DARK CLOUDS ON THE WILD 
 WASTE ARE SCOWLING. 
 
 The low'ring dark clouds on the wild waste are scowling. 
 
 The shrill-sounding winds whistle o'er the drear moor ; 
 For yonder fair form, as the thunders are howling, 
 
 No shelter is near from the wild wintry roar. 
 Bitter thoughts of remembrance now dim those fair eyes, 
 
 The pale light of grief on her forehead appears, 
 And the storm as in pity re-echoes her sighs, 
 
 For beauty is blighted dissolv'd thus in tears. 
 
 Wretched orphan, how sad are thy prospects around ! 
 
 Deserted by those who should cherish thy youth, 
 The bright hopes of past days now no longer surround 
 
 Thy sorrowing heart, and betrayed is thy truth. 
 Surely fortune is more than unkind unto thee : 
 
 The storm of to-day less regretted than those 
 Who so thoughtless, so heartless, have left thee to see 
 
 That death is alone to the friendless repose. 
 
THE VIOLET IN BLOOM. 
 
 The violet in bloom 
 
 Is not fairer than thee, 
 And the lily's perfume 
 
 Never sweeter can be ; 
 The soft blush of the rose 
 
 Is the tint of thy lip, 
 And the honey that grows 
 
 On that lip would I sip. 
 
 Like the bee would I rove 
 
 To the fairest and best 
 Of those buds in the grove, 
 
 Which are sweetest confest ; 
 Yet, unlike to the bee, 
 
 I would settle on one, 
 And would sip sweets from thee, 
 
 And from thy lips alone. 
 
WHEN FAR FROM THE LAND OF MY BIRTH 
 I DEPART. 
 
 When far from the land of my birth I depart, 
 
 To my fate and its fortunes resigned ; 
 When grief may be breaking my once happy heart, 
 
 For the friends I love best, left behind, — 
 O mourn ! and forget not the friendships of youth, 
 
 Let the tear of affection be thine : 
 Those vows my heart plighted in honour and truth 
 
 Will for ever rest sacred in mine. 
 
 Though others reproach me for faults passed away, 
 
 Or the change of affection foretell, 
 Believe not with these that I e'er could betray 
 
 The fond heart that has loved me so well. 
 O no ! and may Heaven yet grant me relief, 
 
 Still may fate leave one blessing for me, 
 And give thee to know, in the dark hour of grief, 
 
 That my love was unchanged for thee ! 
 
THE TRUMPET SOUNDS TO WAR'S ALARMS. 
 
 The trumpet sounds to war's alarms, 
 And bids each hero fly to arms, 
 
 To guard his native land ; 
 Hark ! the shrill blast again resounds, 
 And ev'ry patriot bosom bounds 
 
 To meet the hostile band. 
 
 The lover leaves his mistress dear, 
 Whose speaking eye * betrays each fear ; 
 
 * Although I have never seen the epithet " speaking " as applied to 
 the eye, it is not, I conceive, introduced improperly ; for if any of my 
 readers may have been so fortunate as to fall in love, I believe they will 
 agree with the author, and confess that the " light which shines in 
 woman's eye " not unfrequently speaks a language more powerful and 
 more persuasive than could be produced by any sounds, however sweetly 
 uttered, and though proceeding from the prettiest pair of lips. The eye 
 
But honour conquers beauty : 
 Eager for vict'ry's wreath he burns, 
 He flies, he conquers, and returns 
 
 To love, endeared by duty. 
 
 truly speaks the language of the soul ; for an authority — one skilled in 
 nature's ways — has positively declared, that many eat with their eye ,• 
 and therefore why should not some speak with their eye ? — and in that 
 case it mav become both ornamental and useful. 
 
THE EYE THAT BEAMS WHEN I AM NIGH. 
 
 The eye that beams when I am nigh, 
 The heart that echoes sigh for sigh, 
 The smile that ever sweet can be, 
 O ! these are virtues sought by me. 
 
 The soul that feels for other's wo, 
 Thinks pride unfitting here below, 
 The tear that starts at sorrow's tale — 
 O ! give me these, I'll not bewail. 
 
 The form where youth with grace combined, 
 And that more rare, the grace of mind, 
 The wit from which no sting is sent — 
 O ! give me these, I'll be content. 
 
But let not beauty without sense * 
 E'er think to take me captive hence ; 
 For sense, though plain and poor she be, 
 Is far more dearly loved by me. 
 
 If sense I find with beauty too, 
 I'll pay my homage there, 'tis true ; 
 In sense, not form, the secret lies, 
 Tis this gives worth — 'tis this I prize. 
 
 But since in Cupid's snares I'm caught, 
 My wisdom by experience taught, 
 'Tis fair to say the picture's life — 
 I found these virtues in my Wife. 
 
 * Sense, which, in the opinion of some philosophers, is worth any 
 two of the other four. 
 
WHO CAN WONDER FEW BELIEVE ? 
 
 Who can wonder few believe 
 
 The little giddy, flightsome creature ? 
 She was born but to deceive, 
 
 Possessing not one pretty feature. 
 
 I, for my part, love not paint, 
 
 Abhor the form which art has lent her ; 
 Were she e'en a very saint, 
 
 Or Venus self, I'd fly the tempter. 
 
SOME DOUBTS, MY LOVE, SURE DWELL 
 WITH THEE. 
 
 Some doubts, my love, sure dwell with thee, 
 
 Or why this show of fear ? 
 Too cruel, dost thou weave for me 
 
 Fresh fetters of thy hair. 
 
 Those silken locks so sweetly played, 
 
 Courting the fresh'ning wind, 
 In wanton curls so wildly strayed, 
 
 Flowing and unconfined. 
 
 Yet now they are too like to thee, 
 
 So cruel are both grown ; 
 Freedom would tbey withhold from me, 
 
 E'en if they lost their own. 
 
NOW GREEN ENCHANTMENT SMILES AROUND. 
 
 Now green enchantment smiles around, 
 Now Spring's fair buds are on the ground ; 
 The hoary god reluctant flies, 
 Chased from the earth by sunny skies. 
 
 Summer returns, and with it brings 
 Joy shielded by contentment's wings ; 
 Pleasure attends the goddess' train, 
 Nature appears alive again. 
 
 The prince, the peasant — all the earth 
 Rejoice — pay homage to thy birth ; 
 The raging winds are hushed to rest, 
 For Spring appears in beauty drest. 
 
Now leaf to leaf in union prest, 
 Conceal from view the half-formed nest ; 
 Primroses pale are scattered round, 
 And cowslips wild adorn the ground. 
 
 Young birds now warble in the grove, 
 Now sweetly breathes the sighing gale ; 
 These sounds of love, this prospect fair, 
 Tells me that Spring reigns mistress here. 
 
 The early nightingale's soft note 
 O'er copses wild is heard to float, 
 And seems, in fancy, as we move, 
 Like pity's sighs for hopeless love. 
 
 Blest is the shepherd who, reclined 
 On banks of turf, with idle mind, 
 Lies gazing on the clouds above, 
 Or tells his tale of rural love. 
 
Watching his flocks which careless feed, 
 And, unrestrained, rove through the mead ; 
 His bosom rude no cares can feel, 
 His happy heart no woes can steal. 
 
 Happy is he who still can love 
 Alone through flow'ry vales to rove ; 
 But happiest he who this can find — 
 A constant summer in the mind. 
 
IF TO LOVE IS A SIN, WHICH SOME 
 WISEACRES THINK. 
 
 If to love is a sin, which some wiseacres think, 
 Tis infectious, and, faith, may be easily caught ; 
 
 But at sinning so pleasantly still why not wink, 
 
 Save at that which we find ev'ry day may be — Bought ? 
 
HARK ! I HEAR THE DEEP-TONED BELL. 
 
 Hark ! I hear the deep-toned bell,* 
 In solemn sound and lengthened peal, 
 
 Its tale of sadness faintly tell, 
 As o'er the ear its echoes steal. 
 
 It stops : — and shortly will be borne 
 The coffined tenant of the grave ; 
 
 * The following passage is extracted from the first volume of Lord 
 Bacon's Essays : — " It is very observable, that there is no passion of the 
 mind so weak but it masters and subdues Death. And therefore Death is 
 no such formidable enemy, since a man has so many champions about him 
 that can win the combat of him. Revenge triumphs over Death ; Love 
 slights it; Honour courts it; fear of Disgrace chooses it; Grief 
 flies to it ; Fear anticipates it.* * * I have often thought upon Death, 
 and I find it the least of all evils. All that which is past is as a dream ; 
 and he that hopes or depends upon time coming, dreams waking." — 
 Lord Bacon's Essays, vol. i. pp. 315, 327. 
 
Those only now have cause to mourn 
 Who live, and yet have death to brave. 
 
 O Death, where is thy vaunted sting ? 
 
 O Grave, where is thy victory ? 
 Rest to the wretched thou must bring — 
 
 The brave still live in history. 
 
 No wise men fear thee, for they know 
 Death leads to purer joys above : 
 
 The base, the fool, ne'er count thee foe : 
 Friend unto all, then, thou must prove. 
 
ALL MY ROSES ARE DROOPING, MY FLOWERS 
 ARE DEAD. 
 
 " All my roses are drooping, my flowers are dead, 
 Sure the hand of the spoiler has visited here" — 
 Were the words of my fair one, in innocence said : 
 O how sweetly expressed were those words by a tear ! 
 
 Dearest maiden ! I cried, grieve not thus for those beds 
 Of sweet flowers ; 'tis seen through so plainly by me, 
 
 That for beauty like thine they but hung down their heads, 
 As a token, though silent, of rev'rence to thee. 
 
YES ! GIVE ME TO KNOW, THAT, WHEREVER 
 I ROAM. 
 
 O yes ! give me to know, that, wherever I roam, 
 
 Still the sweets of this life are all centered in home ; 
 And to feel, though surrounded by thousands of friends, 
 
 'Tis on home, not on these, all my comfort depends. 
 We may wander afar, and may wander alone — 
 
 We may visit those lands where the sun never shone, — 
 But our thoughts, like to these, cold and darksome must be, 
 
 If they never revert, dearest home ! unto thee. 
 
 All the countries of earth may more plenteously share 
 
 In the gifts of Pomona ; Apollo may there 
 Light his torch with more fervour, more brilliantly shine, 
 
 And the gay reign of pleasure may never decline ; — 
 Yet my heart must confess, that, wherever I roam, 
 
 Still the sweets of this life are all centered in home ; 
 And will feel, though surrounded by thousands of friends, 
 
 'Tis on home, not on these, all its comfort depends. 
 
SAY, LADY, WHEREFORE DOST THOU WATCH? 
 
 Say, lady, wherefore dost thou watch ? 
 From yon bright host some sign to catch ? 
 Say, dost thou wait to hear the song 
 Of joy come from yon warlike throng ? 
 
 Dost think to see thy bosom's lord 
 Spring forth unhurt by war or sword ? 
 O, lady ! give thy watching o'er, 
 Thou look'st for him who comes no more. 
 
 The blast which once he loudly blew, 
 To call his brave, his chosen few, 
 Is hushed for ever in the grave, 
 Lamented by the good, the brave. 
 
No more thou'lt look upon that face, 
 The first of all his princely race ; 
 No more unloose the helmet's grasp, 
 Nor baldric e'er again unclasp. 
 
 Go, put thee on thy robes of wo, 
 Withered will be thy beauty's glow ; 
 Go, sit thee by the pale light's glare, 
 Proclaim thy grief, unbind thy hair. 
 
 Watch o'er the corpse so cold and grim, 
 Fix thy despairing glance on him, 
 Whose godlike valour, far and wide, 
 Gain'd both at once thy love and pride. 
 
 Alone, she loves to count the hours, 
 As flits the night-bird through those towers : 
 Summer is gone — the wint'ry sky, 
 Black with its storms, scowls fearfully- 
 
Tis drear without, 'tis dull within ; 
 No longer 's heard the minstrel's din ; 
 No more with wine the goblets flow, 
 No sound save sighs, so deep and low. 
 
 Despair sits heavy on her breast ; 
 She heeds not life, but longs for rest ; 
 Madness is in her heart and eye, 
 And dreadful is her agony. 
 
 She seeks his chamber — sees his bed, 
 Thinks where she pillowed last his head ; 
 In vain her eager eye she rolls — 
 " He is not here !" the demon growls. 
 
 Bewildered by her thoughts, she screams ; 
 Truth, like a dreadful vision, gleams ; 
 She droops, she dies, with one faint cry, 
 And yields herself to destiny. 
 
HAVE YOU NOT SEEN, AS SLOW 
 DECLINES AWAY? 
 
 Have you not seen, as slow declines away, 
 Ling'ring with love, and half inclined to stay, 
 Day's peerless light, reflecting as it flies 
 A golden robe around the tinted skies ? 
 So have I seen the blush on beauty's face, 
 Declining, give to ev'ry charm a grace. 
 
LYDIA, MY WOUNDED HEART RESTORE. 
 
 Lydia, my wounded heart restore, 
 Turn, dear, away those brilliant eyes, 
 
 Flatter my willing soul no more — 
 Love cannot hope what fate denies. 
 
 Shouldst thou some other's suit prefer, 
 I might return thy scorn to thee ; 
 
 Learning apostasy from her 
 Who taught me first idolatry. 
 
LIKE THE ONE PRETTY ROSE OF THE VALE. 
 
 Like the one pretty rose of the vale, 
 
 In its robe of simplicity drest, 
 When its scents are borne forth to the gale, 
 
 In its sweetness surpassing the rest. 
 
 Though many we see that are fair, 
 
 And though freshness in each we may meet, 
 No plant that we gaze upon there 
 
 With that one pretty rose can compete. 
 
 The bud which may modestly rest 
 In retirement, may still be the first ; 
 
 Though others in beauty be drest, 
 The finest may still be the worst. 
 
So Mary was queen of love's bow'r, 
 Purest modesty beamed in her face 
 
 Unadorned, the first fairest flow'r, 
 As Simplicity's handmaid of Grace. 
 
O'ER HILLS AND HIGH MOUNTAINS. 
 
 O'er hills and high mountains, 
 We'll drink dry the fountains, 
 
 In bumpers of sparkling champagne ; 
 Course care as he flies, boys, 
 Think nought but of life's joys, 
 
 Until the sun rises again. 
 
 Ev'ry drop would we drain, 
 Were the skies wine to rain, 
 
 The day not departing so soon ; 
 But we've tarried all day 
 To drink daylight away, 
 
 So we tarry to drink down the moon. 
 
THE TIME IS LIKE MY THOUGHTS. 
 
 The time is like my thoughts ; and now 
 
 No star shines softly on us here below, 
 
 The moon in darkness has concealed 
 
 Her yellow light, and night stands forth revealed - 
 
 night ! sweet minister of sleep, 
 
 Why am I doom'd thy lonely watch to keep, 
 
 To wear existence' chain so long, 
 
 To bear all woes that unto man belong? 
 
 Why doom'd to feel the lash of scorn, 
 That follows ev'ry where the lowly born? 
 Why am I thus by fate decreed 
 To live unblest ; nor, dying, to be freed 
 From life ? for when the world can give 
 No pleasing prospects, can we hope to live? — 
 Then welcome, death! hail, friendly night! 
 My spirit soon with thee shall take its flight. 
 
A BIRD IN THE HAND IS WORTH TWO 
 IN THE BUSH. 
 
 A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush ; 
 So why, my dear, make for a kiss such a fuss ? 
 One kiss sure in hand were much better than find 
 The next moment we were a kiss short behind. 
 
THE WANTON CUPID, WHEN A CHILD. 
 
 The wanton Cupid, when a child, 
 
 In search of fun from home beguiled, 
 
 Followed a bee, which stung the elf 
 
 In self-defence — to save itself. 
 
 The big tears rolling from his eyes, 
 
 In Venus' breast he sobbed his sighs, 
 
 Begging for him, for all, that she 
 
 Would pluck the sting from ev'ry bee. 
 
 As Cupid spoke, and speaking cried, 
 
 Venus in answer thus replied : 
 
 " My pet, you've wounded many hearts, 
 
 Both right and left have thrown your darts ; 
 
 Then, if I punish this poor bee, 
 
 What scolding is in store for thee !" 
 
I LOVED THEE LIVING, AND I LOVE THEE DEAD. 
 
 I loved thee living, and I love thee dead ; 
 Sad mem'ry brings thine image to my mind. 
 " The Christian dies not," hath our Saviour said ; 
 " The good in heaven a second life shall find." 
 Thus taught to feel, to know, " What is, is best," 
 I bow my head, resigned to his behest. 
 
LIFE IS A DREAM OF WEAL AND WO. 
 
 Life is a dream of weal and wo, 
 A scene of many changes, 
 
 And fate on mortals here below 
 Through ev'ry station ranges. 
 
 At one time harsh, at others kind, 
 Whene'er we place reliance, 
 
 The fickle goddess sure we find 
 To set us at defiance. 
 
 Seldom her precious gifts she throws 
 
 On unassuming merit — 
 Seldom on these she e'er bestows 
 
 Her favours to inherit. 
 
The bad, the brazen, and the bold, 
 
 And all such lucky sinners, 
 In ev'ry age, from young to old, 
 
 Of fate's best gifts are winners. 
 
 But why should we at fate repine ? 
 
 Regret should rest behind us ; 
 For though one hour with care we pine, 
 
 The next may happy find us. 
 
 Then give the present time its due, 
 Be cheerful, come what may — 
 
 " Time and the hour," we know 'tis true, 
 " Run through the roughest day." * 
 
 * " Come what, come may, 
 
 Time and the hour runs through the roughest day." 
 
 Shaxspeare. 
 
WHEN THE HEAVENS ARE BRIGHT. 
 
 When the heavens are bright 
 With their pale, pearly light, 
 
 And the stars shed their lustre above, 
 Will I fly to the vale, 
 And breathe forth my sad tale 
 
 In the breast of my own dearest love. 
 
 In the chill calm of night, 
 
 O how sweet is the sight 
 To be watching those worlds in the sky ! 
 
 But far sweeter than this 
 
 Are those moments of bliss 
 With my love, when none others are nigh. 
 
To regard her fair eyes, 
 
 And those tale-telling sighs, 
 To drink deep from the fountain of love : 
 
 Sure such moments as these 
 
 Ev'ry care must appease, 
 A relief from life's pain ever prove. 
 
O LET THE PRESENT HOURS EFFACE ! 
 
 O let the present hours efface 
 The thoughts of days long past ! 
 
 Let grief to happiness give place, — 
 Sure care should never last. 
 
 Sorrow thy bosom should have fled, 
 Thy heart have ceased to mourn : 
 
 Grieve not, dear maid, for friends now dead ; 
 Let peace once more return. 
 
 If grief could but restore to us 
 
 Those happy, happy hours — 
 Could sorrow e'er bring back to us 
 
 The friends which once were ours ; — 
 
Then would I press that timid heart, 
 "Would bless thy stricken soul. 
 
 And as thou felt affection's smart, 
 "Would give thee up the whole. 
 
 But, child of grief, wipe off those tears, 
 That friend is now in heaven ; — 
 
 Thy blooming youth, thy life's best years, 
 To sorrow thou hast given. 
 
BY THE VOWS ONCE SPOKEN. 
 
 By the vows once spoken, 
 
 By those vows now broken, 
 
 By the hopes so cherished, 
 
 By those hopes now perished : — 
 By these — nay, more — by all that man e'er loved, 
 To me, thy worse than thoughtless heart has proved. 
 
 By the faith we plighted, 
 
 By the faith you blighted, 
 
 By thy feigned affection, 
 
 By thy base rejection : — 
 By these — nay, more — by all that man e'er loved, 
 To me, thy worse than thoughtless heart has proved. 
 
By the love I bore thee, 
 
 By youth's hopes before me, 
 
 By the oaths we've taken, 
 
 Oaths by you forsaken : — 
 By these — nay, more — by all that man e'er loved. 
 To me, thy worse than thoughtless heart has proved . 
 
 By the light which glowing 
 
 In eyes with love o'erflowing ; 
 
 The sigh when last we met, 
 
 That sigh still ling'ring yet : — 
 By these, thou false one, hast thou truly proved 
 Thv heart has never with affection loved. 
 
SOFT MUSIC ONCE FROM SLUMBER WOKE. 
 
 Soft Music once from slumber woke 
 
 Young Cupid, god of joy; 
 No magic voice the silence broke, 
 
 And sleep enchained the boy. 
 Sweetly with art she breathed a strain 
 
 So beautifully wild, 
 That quickly roused to sense again 
 
 The gently slumb'ring child. 
 
 Waking at Music's magic sound, 
 
 His pleasure-beaming eyes 
 Confessed the shame that he was found 
 
 Thus taken by surprise. 
 The Queen of Song then, laughing, said, 
 
 Fair maidens now should weep ; 
 For how can youth with beauty wed, 
 
 Since Cupid's gone to sleep ? 
 
TO MY WIFE. 
 
 Dearest and Best, my Friend, my Wife, 
 My youth's best solace, and my guide through lif 
 God bless you ! — may each year but prove 
 A fresh succession and increase of love ! 
 
FILL HIGH WITH WINE THE FLOWING BOWL. 
 
 Fill high with wine the flowing bowl, 
 
 To joy we'll give the night ; 
 With wine and wit now feast the soul, 
 
 And care, boys, send to flight. 
 At sorrow's endless, wretched train 
 
 Let senseless fools repine ; 
 But when they sing this life's a pain, 
 
 We'll chaunt the praise of wine. 
 
 Then fill the bowl, and let us drink 
 
 While night his mantle lends ; 
 From Bacchus' cause we ne'er will shrink, 
 
 But pledge our absent friends. 
 To " Those that love us " fill a cup 
 
 Of wine, both strong and sound, — 
 To " Those we love," a parting cup 
 
 Shall end our merry round. 
 
AS THE LANGUAGE OF THOSE SIGHS. 
 
 As the language of those sighs 
 Doth with grief and pleasure fill me, 
 So the beams from those bright eyes 
 Both at once revive and kill me. 
 
'TIS LOVE, LOVE, LOVE, FROM MORN TO NIGHT. 
 
 'Tis love, love, love, from morn till night, 
 For love alone we sure were born, 
 
 And still, ray love, if I guess right, 
 
 'Twill be love, love, from night to morn. 
 
 When o'er my eye-lids sweet sleep creeps, 
 Love's form I view in beauty drest ; 
 
 Waking, in every thought he peeps, 
 Supreme o'er all, with truth confest. 
 
 Love strikes the softest, sweetest string — 
 Truant to him I ne'er could prove ; 
 
 So, spite of all, my muse shall sing 
 In praise of thee, and love, love, love. 
 
THERE IS A STAR THAT SHINES SO SWEET, 
 
 There is a star that shines so sweet, 
 There is a light which glows ; 
 
 More dear than all when lovers meet, 
 When man the maiden woos. 
 
 It is a softly shining star, 
 
 Unwilling e'er to leave, 
 Which, faintly beaming from afar, 
 
 May yet sometimes deceive. 
 
 In the bright dawn of youth we prize 
 
 It far beyond the rest, 
 In the ev'ning of age it flies, 
 
 To nestle in man's breast. 
 
Whate'er betide our sojourn here, 
 
 Of this we ne'er lose sight ; 
 It still becomes in joy more dear, 
 
 More loved in sorrow's night. 
 
 Tis Hope, — and may she rest content, 
 Nor from this world take wing ! 
 
 Her lovely face tow'rds earth be bent ! 
 Her praise still let me sing ! 
 
TELL ME, MAY I MEET THEE THERE ? 
 
 Tell me, may I meet thee there, 
 Where the heath-bell hangs in air, — 
 Where the sun, with tinted ray, 
 Gilds the slow decline of day, — 
 Where each bird his love-tale sings, 
 Ev'ry dale with echo rings, 
 Flow'r and shrubs fresh sweets declare,- 
 Maiden, wilt thou meet me — there ? 
 
 Tell me, may I meet thee when 
 Dancing fairies in the glen 
 Trip with light and noiseless feet, 
 Where the silv'ry moonbeams meet, — 
 When night, jealous of the day, 
 Proudly holds her sov'reign sway, — 
 Or when sleep may visit men, 
 Maiden, wilt thou meet me — then? 
 
THOUGH THIS LIFE MAY BE CHEQUERED WITH 
 PLEASURES AND WOES. 
 
 Though this life may be chequered with pleasures and woes, 
 Though each may take rule with the other ; 
 
 Yet but give me to taste of the first as it flows, 
 The last shall my soul never bother. 
 
 Not a miser am I ; not a man in the world 
 
 Less unwilling a partner to be 
 In " Sir Care and Co.'s" firm ; and to these may be hurled 
 
 All its woes, so its joys rest with me. 
 
COME OVER THE LEA. 
 
 Come over the lea, 
 
 Fair maiden, to me, 
 And I'll tell you your fortune truly ; 
 
 For gipsies, we know, 
 
 Are sprites here below, 
 So be not so coy and unruly. 
 
 The night it is clear, 
 Think nought of thy fear, 
 
 Nor suppose for an instant deceit ; 
 For eyes like to thine 
 In darkness must shine, 
 
 So could easily find out the cheat. 
 
She came over the lea, 
 
 In gayness and glee, 
 And saluting the maid of the dell, 
 
 Her fears taking flight, 
 
 With smiles of delight, 
 Her true fortune she begged her to tell. 
 
 Soon her fortune was told 
 
 By the gipsy so bold, 
 And the maiden the while blushing sweet ; 
 
 For her lover she sighed, 
 
 "When the echo replied, 
 " I have come forth my own love to meet." 
 
THE BRIGHT TINTS IN THE BOW NOT MORE 
 RICHLY ARE DRESSED. 
 
 The bright tints in the bow not more richly are dressed, 
 Nor the shade in its colours more sweetly expressed, 
 Than the beam of expression in dear woman's eye, 
 Or the rays that in ambush so frequently lie. 
 
 O, ye fair ones ! depend that the best man will yield, 
 When such weapons as these ye bring into the field ; 
 For no armour so strong we can e'er hope will prove 
 As a shield of defence from these arrows of love. 
 
 But if ask'd for my fav'rite, and tell it I may, 
 Whether dark eyes or light, whether brown, blue, or gray,- 
 If allowed to select from amongst all the rest, 
 Why I'll candidly say, I love " Hazel" the best. 
 
WHEN JUNO, SUPPLICATING AT JOVE'S THRONE. 
 
 When Juno, supplicating at Jove's throne, 
 Tried ev'ry art, yet vainly sought her boon, 
 The blue-eyed Venus, to the monarch dear, 
 Distilled from Heaven's own dews a woman's tear. 
 Jove, by this off'ring of his queen beguiled, 
 Kissed the warm tear, and named it Pity's child. 
 
COME, RANGE WITH ME THROUGH 
 FLORA'S BOWERS. 
 
 Come, range with me through Flora's bowers, 
 
 To cull the sweets of spring ; 
 Come, pluck with me the fairest flowers 
 
 Those sunny days can bring. 
 
 Then stray in silence to the grove, 
 
 Where each fond bird hovers, 
 And, list'ning to the tender dove, 
 
 Watch these winged lovers. 
 
 When late returning tired, at eve, 
 
 Thou lean'st upon my arm, 
 Thy falt'ring footsteps I'll relieve, 
 
 And shield from ev'ry harm. 
 
COME, SING ME THE SONG THAT I LOVE. 
 
 Come, sing me the song that I love, 
 Nor let sadness be heard in the strain ; 
 
 The sorrows now past ne'er should prove 
 To alight on life's surface again. 
 
 Thy song, like our hearts, should be gay, 
 And the dear voice of gladness be here ; 
 
 Let us chase the dull hours away, 
 Let but mirth in this meeting appear. 
 
SWEET CONTEMPLATION, GENTLE MAID ! 
 
 Sweet Contemplation, gentle maid ! 
 
 I'll woo thee in thine own green shade, 
 
 I'll join thee in thy pensive way, 
 
 I'll pass with thee the ling 'ring day ; 
 With thee I'll visit every silent grove, 
 Through fairy gardens will we jointly rove. 
 
 When weary nature seeks repose, 
 When sleep to all his balm bestows, 
 When night-clouds flit along the sky, 
 And golden stars through ether fly, — 
 Then, at that time, with thee I'll meet, 
 And seek thee in some cool retreat ; 
 Turning in thought the wisdom none can scan, 
 Which ruled this planet since the world began. 
 
The pensive, visionary mind 
 
 In thee fresh hope will ever find ; 
 
 His heart will ever rest with thee, 
 
 In hours of joy or misery ; 
 In thee, sweet Contemplation, will he find 
 A friend sincere, and still the less not kind. 
 
 The child of grief who loves to moan, 
 
 And seek, in solitude alone, 
 
 Relief from pain no art can heal, 
 
 In contemplation joy will feel ; 
 The good, the wretched, all declare thy pow'r, — 
 Thou reign'st a queen — thy throne the midnight hour! 
 
I'VE SEEN IN PRETTY JULIA'S EYE. 
 
 I've seen in pretty Julia's eye 
 A look that many would call sly ; 
 I've known what I should call a tear, 
 Trickling, fall down when I was near ; 
 Have heard she laughs when I am gay - 
 Feels lonely when I am away ; 
 Yet still will fancy whisp'ring be, 
 She loves, but ah ! she loves not me. 
 
 I've known her, too, when I felt sad, 
 Laughing, declare that she was glad ; 
 Coquetting with some other friend, 
 Kindly to him her favours lend. 
 Venus, I'm puzzled, and to you 
 I look for knowledge : — Is she true ? 
 Do thou assist me — be thou judge — 
 Does the girl love, or is it Fudge ? 
 
FORTH TO THE WORLD THE TRUMPET'S CALL. 
 
 ' Forth to the world the trumpet's call 
 Its notes of war is sending ; 
 I'll win me fame, or, dying, fall, 
 My country's cause defending. 
 
 '■ Fame's laurel crown may still be mine, 
 For me she may be twining 
 A wreath that will for ever shine, 
 Though I'm in death reclining." 
 
 Then went he forth who sang so well, 
 His thoughts on conquest bending ; 
 
 He conquered — but the hero fell, 
 His country's cause defending. 
 
WHEN GRIEF MAY FILL MY HEART. 
 
 When grief may fill my heart, or when 
 My thoughts may sorrow bring ; 
 
 When cares may haunt my soul, O ! then 
 I love to hear thee sing. 
 
 When joy may come again, and when 
 
 My sorrows may take wing ; 
 When pleasure fills my soul, ! then 
 
 I love to hear thee sing. 
 
THE HARP WHICH ONCE, IN HAPPY TIMES. 
 
 The harp which once, in happy times, 
 
 Awoke so sweet a strain, 
 Is left unmourned in distant climes, 
 
 Will ne'er be heard again. 
 
 And he who struck those chords of late, 
 
 To us no longer sings ; 
 The winds, as mourning for his fate, 
 
 Rush wildly o'er the strings. 
 
 Then, since, alas ! we shall not hear 
 
 The bard or harp again, 
 For him let friendship prompt the tear, 
 
 Who woke so sweet a strain. 
 
YOU SAUCY LITTLE JADE, HOW DARE YOU ? 
 
 You saucy little jade, how dare 
 You bid me look another way ? 
 
 Pray have not I a right to stare, 
 
 Like others, on the sun's bright ray ? 
 
 My heart is lost — some time since flown, 
 Now nought have I to call mine own ; 
 
 My very life on thee depends, 
 
 So change with me, and make amends. 
 
I SAW THEE FIRST IN YOUTH'S GAY MORN. 
 
 I saw thee first in youth's gay morn, 
 
 From grief and sorrow free ; 
 But who can tell at break of dawn 
 
 What evening's close may be ? 
 
 The smiles that decked thy youthful years 
 Were dew-drops on the flower ; 
 
 And when that smile was lost in tears, 
 'Twas but an April shower. 
 
 The lights of youth no longer shine ; 
 
 On life's rough ocean tost, 
 The smiles and joys which once were thine 
 
 Now are for ever lost. 
 
THERE WAS AN EYE THAT SWEETLY SHONE, 
 
 There was an eye that sweetly shone 
 Like the moon's pale light o'er the sea,- 
 
 Yet the light of that beaming eye 
 Will no longer shine here for me. 
 
 There was a heart that beat with mine, — 
 The pulse of that heart beats no more ; 
 
 'Tis gone, and has left me to pine 
 For one I must ever deplore. 
 
 Her spirit has fled to its sphere, 
 To meet with the angels above ; 
 
 Too pure to remain with us here, 
 
 They recalled back to heav'n my love. 
 
ISABELLA HAS CHARMS, YET HER LOVERS 
 ARE FEW. 
 
 Isabella has charms, yet her lovers are few, 
 And still less would they be, if, like me, they all kneAV 
 That the tongue of this belle is unwilling to cease, 
 And that he who will ring it must pay for his peace. 
 
WHAT IS LOVE' WHY SURE 'TIS SOMETHING. 
 
 What is love ? why sure 'tis something ; 
 A fancied feeling, next to nothing, 
 A pain or pleasure mortals feel, 
 Their joy or grief, their wo or weal ; 
 An urchin scarce deserving praise, 
 So constant his inconstant ways ; 
 A wicked elf, whose chief delight 
 To make mamma and wisdom fight, 
 Who'd count it nothing less than treason 
 To hear his godship ranked with reason. 
 
 Love in a flower may bloom to-day, 
 To-morrow finds him fled away : 
 The rose on beauty's cheek will own 
 Love once was there, but now has gone. 
 
In ruby lips and radiant eyes, 
 
 In dimpled face and tell-tale sighs, 
 
 He lives, and every heart can charm 
 
 With looks that speak and smiles that warm : 
 
 The rogue in quest of pleasure chases, 
 
 Searching the world for pretty faces. 
 
FAIR LADY, WHO COM 'ST HERE TO TELL. 
 
 " Fair lady, who com'st here to tell 
 Thy sins within my lonely cell, 
 Speak low, and be thine heart sincere, 
 Remember, truth alone is here." 
 Thus did the priest, in solemn sound, 
 Address his suppliant on the ground ; 
 His voice was tremulously clear, 
 His cowl concealed from her — a tear. 
 
 Meekness with modesty was in her eye, 
 Her heart was full of scenes gone by ; 
 And, softly speaking, she confest 
 One sin than all disturbed her rest. 
 " Father," she sighed, " you see one lone, 
 On whom but now each pleasure shone — 
 To whom each day brought fresh delight, 
 Whose only sorrow was the night : 
 
Adored by one with honour crowned, 
 Goodness with grace in him were found ; 
 He loved me, and I knew his worth, — 
 
 ! wo to me who sent him forth ! 
 That youth I ne'er shall see again, 
 
 1 drove him to the battle-plain : 
 Father, I come to seek thee here, 
 With nought to hope, — but all to fear." 
 
 The priest felt her anguish of soul, 
 And in pity uplifted the cowl : 
 She saw, as the mask was removed, 
 The face of the youth she had loved. 
 She found him as ever, so now, 
 Regardless of all here below, 
 Save the heart which had sent him away, 
 Or the hand which was his from that day. 
 
DO NOT FORGET ME WHEN AWAY. 
 
 Do not forget me when away, 
 
 My own, my cherished one ; 
 Let mem'ry gild our parting day, 
 
 Like as the setting sun. 
 
 Let fresh tears flowing from thine heart, 
 
 Like drops on summer's eve, 
 Bestow fresh pleasures as they start, 
 
 And with them comfort leave. 
 
 Though fate's dread bolt may o'er me burst, 
 
 I'll love thee whilst I live — 
 Still think thee, as thou art, the first 
 
 Of all this earth can give. 
 
REJOICE, REJOICE, FOR THE SONS OF 
 THE BRAVE. 
 
 Rejoice, rejoice, for the sons of the brave 
 
 Have launched their course on the bright blue wave, 
 
 Are seeking- for fame in the lion's den, 
 
 Are counted first of the sons of men : 
 
 Their barks through the waters so quickly fly, 
 
 Their glittering armour gilds the sky; 
 
 Their pennants all shining and beaming gold, 
 
 Declare the warriors sons of the bold. 
 
 Rejoice, rejoice, for the sons of the brave 
 
 Go forth to the fight, our land to save ; 
 
 And many a maiden fair fears to see 
 
 The loss of our ancient chivalry : 
 
 But when victory plants the palm of fame, 
 
 And deathless memory gilds each name, 
 
 All shall rejoice for the sons of the brave, 
 
 Who have launched their course on the bright blue wave. 
 
THE FAULTS OF THE FAIR SEX ARE TRIFLING 
 AND FEW. 
 
 The faults of the fair sex are trifling and few, 
 And of these will I make no selection ; 
 
 All, all are so gentle, so good, and so true, 
 They deserve man's best gift — his affection. 
 
 Alone here without them, deserted indeed 
 Should we feel, and be lost in dejection ; 
 
 As the sun to the earth, so to man is decreed 
 To be blest with dear woman's affection. 
 
 ! give me but this, not a wish have I left 
 Unfulfilled, not a painful reflection ; 
 
 'Tis my pray'r, that in this world I ne'er be bereft 
 Of that blessing — dear woman's affection. 
 
TO ME NO PAST THOUGHT BRINGS WITH IT 
 DELIGHT. 
 
 To me no past thought brings with it delight, 
 My life indeed has been but one long night ; 
 In change of place I find but change of pain. 
 The scenes of childhood's love ne'er come again. 
 
 The past is gone, the future is to come, 
 Yet hope remains a stranger to my home ; 
 No minister of peace awaits me there, 
 No angel form to save me from despair. 
 
 And is it thus — and am I left forlorn? 
 No friend in joy ? — in grief alone to mourn ? 
 Unwished-for truth ! — all, all, too sure, have gone; 
 The demon Fate has marked me for his own. 
 
WHEN THY SOFT WARBLINGS. 
 
 When thy soft warblings through mine ear 
 
 Into my soul, love, fly, 
 What angel would not quit his sphere 
 
 To hear such harmony ? 
 
REMEMBER THEE! YES, WHILE THERE'S FAITH 
 IN THIS WORLD. 
 
 Remember thee ! yes, while there's faith in this world, 
 And the god of affection remains with us here ; 
 
 While the banner of Cupid o'er earth is unfurled, 
 Will I love, will I live but for thy love, my dear. 
 
 E'en the proudest of kings, in the pomp of their pride, 
 Would exchange, dearest girl, the rich purple with me; 
 
 All the treasures and splendours of state would deride, 
 When possessing that treasure — a kingdom in thee. 
 
'MIDST ALL THE GAY PLEASURES EXISTENCE 
 PRODUCES. 
 
 'Midst all the gay pleasures existence produces, 
 As downwards we glide to the haven of age, 
 
 No thoughts the regret of advance e'er reduces 
 So much as the knowledge of life's brightest page. 
 
 'Tis on this that the sage for his wisdom depends, 
 Which pilots him safe through the journey of life ; 
 
 'Tis the bond that still closer unites our best friends, 
 The soothing corrector of man's petty strife. 
 
 'Tis the light which burst forth and illumined the day 
 The genius of evil fled far from its flame, 
 
 And with feelings of hatred retraced her dark way, 
 To brood o'er her fall, and to blush for her shame. 
 
FEEL THAT DEATH IS ON ME. 
 
 I feel that death is on me, 
 This life quick passes from me, 
 And now, forlorn, 
 I'm left to mourn 
 Those friends which once were round me. 
 
 O man ! thou fickle, false one, 
 What heart thy faith would not shun, 
 
 When love like mine, 
 
 Not false as thine, 
 In life's last close has found me ! 
 
ALL WAS SILENT, AND SLEEP ON THEIR 
 EYE-LIDS WAS PREST. 
 
 All was silent, and sleep on their eye-lids was prest, 
 Not a whisper was heard in the camp o'er the rest ; 
 Not a sound, not a breath of that glorious host, 
 Save the slow distant tread at the sentry's lone post. 
 Every feeling of conquest seemed lost with the light, 
 And the spirit of peace to come back with the night ; 
 Every hand was now useless, and pillowed each head, 
 Which the morrow might number to rest with the dead. 
 
 Yet sleep was not quiet, neither slumber repose, 
 Nor the rest of that night afford comfort to those, 
 While the dream of the next day with fancy would roam 
 To the scenes of their childhood, the friends loved at home. 
 'tis Nature, that goddess supreme o'er the heart, 
 Which appeals to the feelings of all e'er they part ! 
 And as clouds on a sunny day sometimes appear, 
 So the tears shed by valour are doubly held dear. 
 
But the dawning of morn with its bright sun arose, 
 And the darkness of night leaves no trace as it goes 
 Of the clouds which so lately were thickened around, 
 Or the silence that reigned o'er the red battle ground. 
 All is life, and that sun new existence can give 
 To the hearts which for honour and history live — 
 And the souls of those heroes now anxiously bound, 
 In the first ranks of conquest or death to be found. 
 
 Yet, alas ! for the end of that terrible fight, 
 When the victory's gained; and alas! for the sight, 
 When with slow, muffled drum to their last home are borne 
 The brave spirits of those who went forth in the morn, — 
 Who rejoiced with the sun, and were first in the field, — 
 Who remembered their banner, "We never must yield." 
 Sure, a conquest like this is no conquest to boast; 
 'Tis indeed honour gained, but a victory lost. 
 
SHOULD SOME GAY AND LUCKY LOVER. 
 
 Should some gay and lucky lover 
 Julia's long-lost heart discover, 
 Sure fortune is to him most kind, 
 Who gains a prize none else could find. 
 
LOOK AT BELINDA BY THE CANDLE-LIGHT. 
 
 Look at Belinda by the candle-light, 
 
 You'd think fair Hebe was in her re-born ; 
 
 Wait but awhile, and you'll observe the fright - 
 A very Hecate on the coming morn. 
 
COME, THEN, LOVE ME AT ONCE. 
 
 Come, then, love me at once, and make no more delay, 
 For why be just now so excessively shy ? 
 
 'Tis a duty, we know, the command to obey, 
 " Do unto all men as ye would be done by." 
 
THOUGH ALL THE WORLD SAY. 
 
 Though all the world say, and I cannot deny it, 
 That to kiss in broad daylight is not quite the thing, 
 
 I still feel inclined, just for once, dear, to try it, 
 And on those pretty lips to commit my first sin. 
 
CONFESS THEE AT THE SHRINE OF LOVE. 
 
 Confess thee at the shrine of love, 
 And all thy former faults forget ; 
 
 Let penitence sincerely prove 
 
 Amendment may be thine e'en yet. 
 
 You owe me, love, no trifling bliss, ' 
 I only wish to set things straight ; 
 
 Do you give back, for ev'ry kiss, 
 To me, on each, per-centage eight. 
 
THE POETS SAY. 
 
 The poets say, 
 
 As well they may, 
 That love's a common passion ; 
 
 So Helen tries, 
 
 By unfelt sighs, 
 To prove herself in fashion. 
 
FEEL UNHAPPY FOR A CAUSE. 
 
 I feel unhappy for a cause 
 Which truth shall now reveal ; 
 
 I 've broken one of our just laws, 
 " Thou shalt not surely steal." 
 
 Yet, who would not commit a theft, 
 Attended with such gain ? 
 
 For if another heart were left 
 Like thine — I'd steal again. 
 
FAREWELL! FAREWELL! 
 
 Farewell ! farewell ! and can I force that word, 
 So sad to speak, more mournful to be heard ? 
 Can lips like mine send forth so harsh a sound ? 
 Can I so cold to thee and love be found ? 
 O no ! 'tis fate who tolls our parting knell, 
 Who speaks for me the cruel word, Farewell ! 
 
 And must we part ? are all our pleasures o'er ? 
 Is it decreed we meet again no more ? 
 Are all our hopes of happiness thus lost ? 
 Are those who love selected for the worst ? 
 O yes ! for fate, who tolls our parting knell, 
 
 ks now for me the cruel word— Farewell ! 
 
THOUGH THE POETS MAY SING, AND 
 PHILOSOPHERS SAY. 
 
 Though the poets may sing, and philosophers say, 
 
 Tis the sun which alone can enlighten our day ; 
 
 Yet with sages and poets I ne'er can agree, 
 
 Since my day turns to night, love, when absent from thee. 
 
WHAT AN AWKWARD PREDICAMENT SURELY 
 IS MINE! 
 
 What an awkward predicament surely is mine ! 
 To gaze on the sun, next on those eyes of thine ; 
 For the reason, my fair one, I'll tell unto thee, 
 That in this world one sun is sufficient for me. 
 
SOME ANCIENT SAID, WHO MUST HAVE 
 BEEN A DUNCE. 
 
 Some ancient said, who must have been a dunce, 
 No mortal ever did two things at once ; 
 But you convince me that the fellow lies, 
 Speaking at once with both thy tongue and eyes. 
 
HEARD YE THAT PLAINTIVE, MELANCHOLY 
 MOAN? 
 
 Heard ye that plaintive, melancholy moan, 
 And heard ye not the second dreadful cry, 
 The lengthen'd sigh, the barely stifled groan, 
 Like sinking wretches in their agony ? 
 
 Why pants the heaving bosom o'er the grave 
 Where lovely innocence in peace must rest ? 
 Why flows the useless tear that could not save 
 From death's relentless grasp the child that's blest ? 
 
HAIL TO THIS SACRED DAY! 
 
 Hail to this sacred day! 
 
 A day to us so dear ; 
 Dull care, begone — away — 
 
 For joy reigns monarch here. 
 
 We'll drink a health to her, 
 The fairy Queen of May, 
 
 And banish ev'ry fear, 
 For we are blest to-day. 
 
 Long may she happy be, 
 
 Growing both good and wise, 
 
 Be blest as now are we, 
 
 Who've gain'd so fair a prize. 
 
Hail to the thirty-first ! 
 
 Hail to the Queen of May ! 
 My soul with joy could burst, 
 
 So blest am I to-day. 
 
 I've drank from pleasure's store, 
 
 Been happy ere to day ; 
 But ne'er knew joy before 
 
 This thirty-first of May. 
 
 Though wealth may purchase much, 
 Though much be gain'd from pow'r, 
 
 No happiness is such 
 As that I feel this hour. 
 
 The pomps and cares of state, 
 
 With all its tinsell'd show, 
 I give them to the Great 
 
 And Little, here below. 
 
The prize for which all try, 
 Is happiness on earth ; 
 
 How happy then am I 
 In thee my baby's birth. 
 
 The miser hoards the gold 
 He worships as his god, 
 
 Where tale was never told, 
 Or footstep ever trod. 
 
 With soul opprest with care, 
 His anxious, beating heart 
 
 Fears some intruder there 
 To take away a part. 
 
 Like him, with jealous eye, 
 My babe I'll watch with care ; 
 
 Lest some, when I'm not by, 
 A parent's love may share. 
 
Then hail, my Wife, to thee ! 
 
 Hail to this happy day ! 
 And hail, with three times three, 
 
 The Thirty-first of May ! 
 
POOR JANE IS CRAZ'D FROM SORROW. 
 
 Poor Jane is craz'd from sorrow, 
 Her tears are falling fast ; 
 
 She thinks the coming morrow 
 May find her troubles past. 
 
 With tatter'd gown she'll wander, 
 
 Seeking for charity, 
 And frequently will ponder 
 
 On Love's inconstancy. 
 
 But ne'er will she discover, 
 
 Nor ever find again, 
 The cruel, heartless lover, 
 
 Who made her — Crazy Jane. 
 
IT IS NOT THAT I DOUBT THY LOVE. 
 
 It is not that I doubt thy love, 
 Or think thee fickle -hearted ; 
 
 I'd sooner doubt the Sun doth move, 
 Or Ocean could be parted. 
 
 But 'tis that when away from thee 
 
 I feel myself so lonely : 
 Without thee, what is life to me, 
 
 Who live for thee — thee only? 
 
LIST TO THE SOUND, 'TIS SWEET TO HEAR. 
 
 List to the sound, 'tis sweet to hear, 
 
 As echo sighs along, 
 Warbled by one I hold so dear, 
 
 The grateful breath of song. 
 
 The summer breeze, the gentle gale, 
 
 Seem whispering in love, 
 And echo tells the tender tale 
 
 To spirits high above. 
 
 O were it mine, that she could hear 
 
 In echo ev'ry sigh, 
 She'd pity him once held so dear, 
 
 And doom'd by her to die ! 
 
I HAVE BASK'D IN THE SUNSHINE OF BEAUTY'S 
 BRIGHT EYE. 
 
 I have bask'd in the sunshine of beauty's bright eye, 
 And have found fascination in ev'ry face lie ; 
 Have oft fancied my heaven in woman's fair cheek, 
 But the dreams of my boyhood would last but a week. 
 
 I have tasted the exquisite pleasure of tears, 
 And have revell'd with hope in its joys and its fears ; 
 Have oft loved what I thought was perfection below, 
 But have ne'er felt before what I feel for thee now. 
 
WHEN THE WINTER OF AGE MAY COME 
 SILENTLY ON. 
 
 When the winter of age may come silently on, 
 And the bright sunny days of our youth are all gone ; 
 When our visions of joy, once so splendidly bright, 
 Have all faded from view in the darkness of night ; 
 Yet we feel the same friendship for those that remain, 
 And with these live the summer of life o'er again. 
 
 Though the buds which have blossomed in summer are dead, 
 Still the rich fruits of autumn we gain in their stead ; 
 And when mem'ry turns back to the pages of youth, 
 She will find written there, and in letters of truth, 
 'Tis at that time we all should with pleasure engage 
 To sow fruit which may bloom in the winter of age. 
 
IF 'TIS WICKED TO GAZE. 
 
 If 'tis wicked to gaze on the form we approve, 
 Or to look with delight on those eyes we may love, 
 Then, undoubtedly, I, my dear, soon must begin 
 To be better, — or go to the regions of Sin. 
 
WHO IS HE RIDES SO MERRILY FORWARD 
 TO-DAY ? 
 
 Who is he rides so merrily forward to-day? 
 
 Tis the handsome Lord Edward so gallant and gay ; 
 
 And he rides it so merrily forward to see 
 
 If the lady he loves still to him true can be. 
 
 He has cut his way through to the pathways of fame, 
 And his valour has brought him a glorious name ; 
 For two years have been passed by the hero in wars, 
 Bravely fighting for honour in Christendom's cause. 
 
 As his courser flies onwards, he finds himself nigh 
 To the goal of his hopes, and his heart it beats high ; 
 For he fears that some other, more favoured and bold, 
 May have purchased his treasure by glitter and gold. 
 
But by glitter and gold could the heart ne'er be bought, 
 Which in honour and faith by Lord Edward was sought ; 
 And though suitors have offered when he was away, 
 The base dictates of av'rice she ne'er would obey. 
 
 She has mourn'd for his absence, but dared not believe 
 That the heart which he proffered could wish to deceive; 
 She considered affection in faith was best shewn, 
 And affection had taught her to think him her own. 
 
 A shrill bugle is heard at the low-portal'd gate, 
 And the wild winds were howling as Emily sate 
 In despondence, and musing if absence could prove 
 So severe as to make him forget her and love. 
 
 She looks from her turret, and sees an armed knight, 
 And the glitter of steel through the darkness shines bright ; 
 The old porter he bows to the stranger-knight there, 
 And he greets him with kindness, attends him with care. 
 
A thousand vague hopes soon are entering her breast, — 
 Now she fancies herself in her lover's arms prest ; 
 Then she fears that in battle a soldier's rude blow 
 May the life of her heart in the dust have laid low. 
 
 Then she hastes to her father, her eyes filled with tears, 
 Softly breathes in his bosom her hopes and her fears, 
 And she begs him, with earnestness, quickly declare, 
 If the bugle she heard has brought Lord Edward there. 
 
 " My dear daughter, what fear ye ?" her kind father said ; 
 " Why are tears in those eyes ? in thy heart why a dread ? 
 For, believe me, thy lover is far, far away, 
 Bravely fighting for honour and conquest to-day." 
 
 Her father is silent : she now fears to know more, 
 When quick footsteps are heard as approaching the door, 
 And the vassal who enters his lord whispers low ; 
 But the message he bears seems to her aught but wo. 
 
Now the bright flush of joy seems to blaze o'er the cheek 
 Of the baron, who vainly endeavours to speak ; 
 But, recovered, he tells her a stranger and knight 
 Hospitality begs and admittance that night. 
 
 Then the baron he leaves her to welcome his guest, 
 And she feels as if sorrow had fled from her breast ; 
 She is anxiously waiting to see the strange knight 
 Who has asked hospitality there for the night. 
 
 He comes ! — quick as lightning he flies to her side ! 
 There the beautiful Emily claims for his bride ; 
 And the voice of the stranger has chased fear away — 
 For 'tis he, the brave Edward, so gallant and gay 1 
 
LOVE YE — IS NOT THAT ENOUGH? 
 
 I love ye — is not that enough, 
 
 In common sense and conscience too ? 
 
 Despising all the silly stuff 
 
 Which lovers talk — I'll swear I do. 
 
 This candour, dearest, never blame, 
 For 'tis of truth the surest test : 
 
 Tell me ye do not hate my name, 
 And leave me, love, to guess the rest. 
 
A LOVELY ROSE ONE SUMMER'S DAY. 
 
 A lovely rose one summer's day 
 I plucked from off the stem, 
 
 And to my Charlotte bore away 
 The sweetly blushing gem. 
 
 To save my gift the dear one tried, 
 And pressed it in her arms, 
 
 Yet still the teasing flower died, 
 Through envy of her charms. 
 
SPITEFUL AS ENVY'S SELF. 
 
 Spiteful as Envy's self, that all her life 
 'Tvvas never asked her, " Would she be a wife ? 
 The old maid growls, with ill-affected taste, 
 " I hate those fools who marry in such haste." 
 
CLARINDA'S AGE IS FIFTY YEARS, OR SO. 
 
 Clarinda's age is fifty years, or so, 
 But time ne'er found her yet without a beau : 
 The reason's plain : she joins to great good sense 
 Manners that please, and wit without pretence. 
 
IN VAIN THE TONGUE EACH TENDER FEELING. 
 
 In vain the tongue each tender feeling, 
 Each impulse of the heart denies ; 
 
 In looks her secret thoughts revealing, 
 The truth is found in Georgy's eyes. 
 
IF ANY PLANT THERE IS THAT BLOWS. 
 
 If any plant there is that blows 
 More sweetly than the rest, 
 
 It is the chastely blooming rose, 
 In native beauty drest. 
 
 If any gentle virtue throws 
 A grace on all the rest, 
 
 'Tis modesty, which meekly grows 
 To bloom in woman's breast. 
 
THAT LITTLE DARLING, FANNY, FINDS. 
 
 That little darling, Fanny, finds 
 All men are cold as winter winds : 
 
 How hard no friend in kindness hints 
 
 She has one fault — but one — she squints. 
 
WINTER APPROACHES WITH HIS IRON WAND. 
 
 Winter approaches with his iron wand, 
 To bid the course of vegetation stand ; 
 Yet half-congealed, with barely frozen dew, 
 His silv'ry locks, his brow-, present to view 
 The hoary god, in majesty to reign 
 O'er all the earth, and o'er th' extended main. 
 
 Now might we think the very gods have fears, 
 Th' ethereal sky in pity raining tears ; 
 Creation grieves Pomona's hapless fate, 
 So diff 'rent now from what she was of late ; 
 Winter's stern foe, Apollo, hides his face : 
 All things are dead, and nature out of place. 
 
WHO CARES FOR WHAT THE WORLD MAY SAY ? 
 
 Who cares for what the world may say ? 
 
 Not I or you, depend on't ; 
 Love's dictates only we'll obey, 
 
 For love is independent. 
 
 The peasant, as the pompous peer, 
 In old Time's scales weigh even ; 
 
 So let "us waste no time, my dear, 
 But value what is given. 
 
 If we from Time some hours could steal, 
 We'd give them all to pleasure ; 
 
 For I no love for old Time feel, 
 But hate him bevond measure. 
 
The world may blame us for a fault — 
 We'll blame the world again, love ; 
 
 For, trust me, none till death cries " halt," 
 From scandal will be free, love. 
 
 Then think not of the envious frown 
 Which all the world are casting ; 
 
 Love, spite of these, our hours shall crown 
 With pleasures far more lasting. 
 
WHAT CAUSE HAVE I FOR HATING YOU? 
 
 What cause have I for hating you ? 
 
 Why this : — my poor heart prizes 
 The love which made me bid adieu 
 
 To all that good and wise is. 
 
 Base one, you fled ! the treasure gone ! 
 
 Nor blest me when we parted ; 
 You left me to repent alone, 
 
 Unhappy — broken-hearted ! 
 
AWAY, THOU FALSE ONE! 
 
 Away, thou false one ! I disown 
 Thy power again to move me ; 
 
 Not all the beauty thou dost own 
 Could ever make me love thee. 
 
 For I'll not be, though fair thou art, 
 By lips so false persuaded 
 
 Twice to present a broken heart 
 To her that once betrayed it. 
 
COME KISS ME, PET, FOR NONE ARE BY. 
 
 CoiMe kiss me, pet, for none are by, 
 Whose frowns might else prevent it ; 
 
 Profit by opportunity, 
 Or we may both repent it. 
 
SOME SAY EXPERIENCE BUT FROM 
 PRACTICE GROWS. 
 
 Some say experience but from practice grows, 
 Others, that love's learnt in a minute ; 
 
 I have a heart, my little dear, to lose, 
 So come and try if you can win it. 
 
ERE THE BLOOM OF YOUTH IS WASTED. 
 
 Ere the bloom of youth is wasted, 
 Love by woman should be tasted ; 
 Who, to prize, can be persuaded, 
 Sullied flowers — beauty faded? 
 
MY DEAREST CHARMER! 
 
 My dearest charmer ! I would gladly pay 
 Rent-kisses to thee ev'ry day ; 
 For these are Cupid's pepper-corns, and shew 
 I'm tenant, love, for life, to you. 
 
SO APT A SCHOLAR IN THE ART OF LOVE. 
 
 So apt a scholar in the art of love, 
 
 Her store of knowledge should in teaching prove : 
 
 By one who loves ye, then, advised be, 
 
 A private pupil to receive in — me. 
 
NO," IS A WORD BY WOMEN OFTEN SAID. 
 
 " No," is a word by women often said, 
 
 Spoken by many when they're asked to wed ; 
 
 Believe me, I their wishes rightly guess, 
 
 When they say " no" — the pretty dears mean " yes.' 
 
WHEN OLD TIME WAS YOUNG. 
 
 Whe?v t old Time was young, 
 
 All the poets have sung, 
 How man unto thieving was given ; 
 
 For of one it is told, 
 
 Not so honest as bold, 
 He actually stole fire from heaven. 
 
 'Twas Prometheus they say 
 
 Made a model of clay, 
 Animation purloined from the skies ; 
 
 But, depend upon me, 
 
 Had the rascal seen thee, 
 He'd have borrowed his light from those eyes. 
 
THE DEMON WHO SO MADLY DEALT. 
 
 The demon who so madly dealt 
 Against his only daughter, 
 
 He surely never could have felt 
 The feelings of a father. 
 
 To sacrifice his only child, 
 To give her unto slaughter, — 
 
 Pride was the devil that beguiled 
 The fiend to slay his daughter. 
 
THOUGH APOLLO, AS LAMP-LIGHTER. 
 
 Though Apollo, as lamp-lighter, all the world say, 
 
 Was appointed by Jove to give light unto day, 
 
 'Tis a sinecure office ; for Sol in the skies 
 
 Has declared that the sun takes its light from those eyes. 
 
NO STAR WAS SEEN. 
 
 No star was seen — the winds blew high, 
 No beast went forth to roam ; 
 
 Dark stormy clouds were in the sky, 
 When Mary left her home. 
 
 " My father," did she cry, so wild, 
 
 " My father, were he nigh, 
 Would pity her he once called child, 
 
 In lonely agony. 
 
 " My mother, now thou'rt dead and gone, 
 
 Has turned me out of doors, 
 And sent thy daughter forth to mourn 
 
 Upon the wintry moors. 
 
" O, father ! I have loved her so 
 
 As other child ne'er loved ; 
 I felt affection's warmest glow, 
 
 In strict obedience proved." 
 
 As Mary spoke, her tears fell fast ; 
 
 And moaning in her grief, 
 " When death may come," she said, at last, 
 
 " Who'll give my babe relief?" 
 
 Then with a mother's care she prest, 
 
 And in her arms did fold, 
 The infant to her aching breast, 
 
 To shield it from the cold. 
 
 Her tattered garb she wrapt around 
 
 Its little shiv'ring form ; 
 Then sunk upon the cold, damp ground, 
 
 To 'bide the ruthless storm. 
 
She looks upon her life's first care, 
 And hears its piteous sighs ; 
 
 She sees that death, too sure, is there, 
 She knows no more — but dies. 
 
AS ALL HEAVEN IS PRESENT. 
 
 As all Heaven is present when thou, love, art nigh, 
 
 And the cares of this life to the devil may fly ; 
 
 So depend upon this, that the world is to me 
 
 But a Hell upon earth, or still worse — when from thee. 
 
TRULY TO LOVE THEE, DEAREST, WERE A SIN. 
 
 Truly to love thee, dearest, were a sin, 
 
 Since that thy heart obeys those roving eyes ; 
 
 I know thou'rt all inconstancy within, 
 And the last conquest is the richest prize. 
 
 But since our inclinations can agree, — 
 
 For 'tis my motto, all should love who can, - 
 
 Why should a quarrel rise 'twixt you and me ? 
 I'll love all women, you love all that's man. 
 
 Cupid, we know, is fickle, false, and gay, 
 Content ne'er lived a week in any place ; 
 
 Our diff'rent passions then let both obey, 
 And if we quarrel, let us part with grace. 
 
'TIS A PITY THAT CUPID SHOULD TURN FROM 
 HIS COURT. 
 
 'Tis a pity that Cupid should turn from his court, — 
 To which knaves, more than honest hearts, chiefly resort, — 
 Such a form, such a face — so bewitchingly sweet, 
 Because she, like her neighbours — in love was a cheat. 
 
I CANNOT, PHYLLIS, ANY LONGER WINK. 
 
 I cannot, Phyllis, any longer wink 
 At all the follies of your fickle heart ; 
 
 You force me, girl, against my wish, to think 
 Fancy must form of love the better part. 
 
ROSA, WHENE'ER I TOUCH THY HAND. 
 
 Rosa, whene'er I touch thy hand, 
 
 I feel a something through me moving, 
 
 Sensations — you may understand, 
 So skilled in all the ways of loving. 
 
 Come then, and tell me, with a kiss, 
 My pretty, prattling Rosa, whether 
 
 It must not be the height of bliss 
 
 To learn the Art of Love — together. 
 
FANNY, YOU FOOLISH THING, I SAY. 
 
 Fanny, you foolish thing, I say, 
 Kiss me, and make no fuss about it ; 
 
 You've done it, love, before to-day, 
 So kiss again, to let none doubt it. 
 
HAIL! EMPRESS OF THE SKIES, THOU PALE- 
 ROBED QUEEN. 
 
 Hail ! empress of the skies, thou pale-robed queen, 
 
 First as the fairest planet of the night, 
 How, when again thy sil'vry beams are seen, 
 
 Do I rejoice to gaze upon thy light ! 
 So soothing unto all thy magic power, 
 
 And doubly welcome to the care-worn breast, 
 No noisy revels should disturb the hour, 
 
 Meant but for contemplation or for rest : 
 Whene'er I look upon thy chastened face, 
 
 And think of all that unto man is giv'n, 
 My worldly thoughts must then, indeed, give place 
 
 To thee, O Moon, Eternity, and Heaven. 
 
GOD OF THE SKIES, LIGHT OF THE 
 WOND'RING WORLD. 
 
 God of the skies, light of the wond'ring world, 
 Morning's first herald and her dearest friend ! 
 
 In golden rays thy banner is unfurled, 
 
 Blazing with brightness to earth's utmost end. 
 
 Swiftly thy noble coursers' bounding feet 
 Fly o'er the surface of the vaulted sky, 
 
 The loved Aurora in her course to meet, 
 Or tell the goddess that Apollo's nigh. 
 
 Well may the pale Moon hide her beauteous face, 
 Seeking protection in unwelcome flight ; 
 
 Well may she try to cover her disgrace 
 
 In the dark shades and friendly mist of night. 
 
With lively gratitude we all behold 
 
 Night's heavy gloom pass gradually away, 
 
 Phoebus reflecting from his car of gold 
 The splendid sunshine of returning day. 
 
FIRST ATTRIBUTE OF GOODNESS. 
 
 First attribute of goodness, heavenly maid, 
 Mercy ! how sacred, how beloved thy name ! 
 
 How purely good the mind of him who said, 
 That " true self-love, and social, are the same !" 
 
 Love for ourselves is, rightly, love for all — 
 For all are brothers here, or should be such ; 
 
 And he that listens not to mercy's call, 
 Of Christianity can not boast much. 
 
 The milk of human kindness, when it flows 
 
 Pure in its streams from man's too wayward breast, 
 
 Gives to the heart where every virtue grows 
 Favour in Heaven far above the rest. 
 
Mercy ! I hail thee as my bosom's friend, 
 First, fairest child of piety thou art ; 
 
 And I to thee, in adoration, send 
 The humble homage of an honest heart. 
 
THROUGH THE FRINGED CASEMENT OF HER 
 PRETTY EYES. 
 
 Through the fringed casement of her pretty eyes 
 
 My Rosa's soul is often peeping, 
 Hoping to catch some lover by surprise, 
 
 Who thinks Tier not the worse for — keeping. 
 
AS ONCE, WHEN GAZING ON THE FACE. 
 
 As once, when gazing on the face 
 
 Of her I loved too well, 
 Methought I saw the welcome trace 
 
 Of that she would not tell : 
 But when my love-tale I exprest, 
 
 And told her of my pain, 
 With laughing eyes the fair confest 
 
 She could not love again. 
 
 My dream dispelled, I flew to thee, 
 
 To love thee still the more ; 
 By fickle fancy's just decree, 
 
 Love's wanderings were o'er : 
 You chid me, not in anger, dear, 
 
 Nor of false vows did tell : 
 ! then I felt that one was near 
 
 I could not love too well. 
 
LAURA, WHAT SAY YOU? 
 
 Laura, what say you to a game 
 
 At cards, — we'll play for hearts, love ; 
 
 And they who win shall keep the same, 
 The victory to prove, love ? 
 
 O ! such a shuffling let us make, 
 So mix them with each other ; 
 
 And, careless who may give or take, 
 Let's lose to one another. 
 
O ! WHAT ARE THE JOYS OF THE GAY AND 
 THE GREAT? 
 
 ! what are the joys of the gay and the great, 
 
 Or what is ambition's treasure ? 
 Does comfort consist in the splendours of state ? 
 
 Is life meant for toil or pleasure ? 
 The roses which bloom for the gay, smiling hours, 
 
 Will die if neglected awhile ; 
 So the youth which is thine, and the joys which are ours, 
 
 Will droop unless sunned by a smile. 
 
 Then, blest with each other, the gods cannot give 
 
 Us to taste of the cup of wo ; 
 We'll pluck the wild roses of joy whilst we live, 
 
 And cherish its buds as they grow : 
 For poppies shall drive any cares that we have 
 
 To the soft and silent night ; 
 And Cupid shall dig for Regret a deep grave, 
 
 Or put the dull fellow to flight. 
 
HAS ALL THY FULSOME FLATT'RY GONE 
 FOR NAUGHT? 
 
 Has all thy fulsome flatt'ry gone for naught? 
 
 Are men so blind to pass a gray-beard by ?* 
 Have none by thee, old mouser, yet been caught, 
 
 When blooming youth and loveliness were nigh ? 
 
 Yet why imagine thou alone art curst ? 
 
 Why dream that others happier are, and blest ? 
 In youth you certainly do not rank first, 
 
 But then in AGE you far excel the rest. 
 
 " Though gray our heads, our thoughts and aims are green; 
 
 Like damaged clocks, whose hand and bell dissent, 
 
 Folly sings six, while Nature points at twelve." — Young. 
 
PHYLLIS, LIVELY, GAY, AND YOUNG. 
 
 Phyllis, lively, gay, and young, 
 
 Phyllis is the girl for song ; 
 
 And Cupid, little imp, is seeking 
 
 To catch all hearts when she is speaking. 
 
 Joy is in her smiling face, 
 Venus' self has not more grace ; 
 With lively wit, yet pleasing manners, 
 She brings recruits to Reason's banners. 
 
THOUGH ALL THE GRACES ART CAN GIVE. 
 
 Though all the graces art can give 
 In Fanny's features seem to live ; 
 Yet still the girl, without offence, 
 Possesses not one grain of — sense. 
 
JULIA, MY PRETTY LITTLE PRUDE. 
 
 Julia, my pretty little prude, 
 
 Why so sentimental ? 
 'Tis not your nature to be rude, 
 
 Or so Platonical. 
 
 Then under my advice begin, 
 I'll teach the art to thee : 
 
 To love is surely no great sin, 
 And least in loving me. 
 
PLEDGE ME, LOVE, WITH BURNING KISSES. 
 
 Pledge me, love, with burning kisses, 
 With melting sighs, delicious looks : 
 
 I would learn from thee what bliss is, 
 Not from the sages or their books. 
 
 On Cupid's antics, when a boy, 
 My wond'ring fancy often fed : 
 
 Give me at last to taste the joy, 
 To feel the truth of what I read. 
 
SUCH MAGIC INFLUENCE IN THOSE EYES. 
 
 Such magic influence in those eyes, 
 Such witchery about thee, 
 
 Angels might envy me the prize, 
 Nor wish to live without thee. 
 
EACH SOFTER EMOTION. 
 
 Each softer emotion 
 
 Of love and devotion 
 Thrill through me when Bessy appears : 
 
 Like the day-star on high 
 
 Shines the light of her eye ; 
 To me she's the dearest of dears. 
 
THE SUMMER IS GONE. 
 
 The summer is gone, and the leaves 
 Are scattered away from their home ; 
 
 No vestige remains on the trees 
 
 Of their beauty ; all, all now is gloom ! 
 
 But lately the prospect how fair ! 
 
 How enchanting the villages green ! 
 Yet now desolation is there, 
 
 And not one smiling face to be seen. 
 
 The winds, as they surlily blow, 
 Seem rejoicing again to hold sway ; 
 
 The clouds, flitting murky and low, 
 To be glad at the shortness of day. 
 
ABSENCE OUR HEARTS MAY SEVER. 
 
 Absence our hearts may sever, 
 
 Bound by every Vow ; 
 I could not love thee better, 
 
 Mary, than I do now. 
 
 In the sunshine of thy pride, 
 When pleasure's spells abound, 
 
 Let my faith still be thy guide, 
 My spirit hover round. 
 
 May Cupid's voice then reach thee, 
 And whisper o'er and o'er ; 
 
 Let Reason's warning teach thee 
 That none can love you more. 
 
I go, my fortune seeking 
 Upon the fickle main ; 
 
 Yet life's not worth the keeping 
 Unless we meet again. 
 
O LOUISA! BELIEVE ME. 
 
 O Louisa ! believe me, the night will arrive, 
 And will cast o'er thy beauty a shade ; 
 
 For the rose-bud of youth, my love, never can thrive 
 In old age, but must wither and fade. 
 
 Then blush not, my girl, because you, like the rest, 
 Must knock under to old Time's decree ; 
 
 For, believe me, that none who with beauty are blest, 
 But will bend, in their time, like to thee. 
 
 All the wit in the world cannot drive away age, 
 You may paint and may patch for ever ; 
 
 But with love, so with beauty, we learn from the sage, 
 Once lost, it returns again never. 
 
One secret may make the time last much the longer ; 
 
 Tis this — to give pleasure each minute ; 
 And as we can now never hope to grow younger, 
 
 Why let us instanter begin it. 
 
LAURA, SO THRIFTY OF HER TIME, 
 
 Laura, so thrifty of her time, 
 Has told me, she discovers, 
 
 To live is worse than the worst crime, 
 Without some score of lovers. 
 
YOU LITTLE STINGY, SELFISH THING. 
 
 You little stingy, selfish thing, 
 Why are you such a miser 
 
 Of what would in Love's market bring 
 Not e'en a single stiver ? 
 
 A speculation let us make 
 
 In hearts — each other's changing; 
 Depend upon it you will take 
 
 A better by exchanging. 
 
INDEX. 
 
 A. PAGE 
 
 A bird in the hand 73 
 
 A lovely rose one summer's day 150 
 
 Absence our hearts may sever 196 
 
 All my roses are drooping 62 
 
 All was silent 121 
 
 And dost thou love me ? 40 
 
 As some dark meteor 29 
 
 As the language of those sighs 87 
 
 As all heaven is at present 173 
 
 As once, when gazing 185 
 
 Away, thou false one ! 160 
 
 B. 
 
 Beauty, I've heard, one summer's day 21 
 
 Britannia, the land that I love 7 
 
 By the fresh mossy side , 42 
 
 By the vows once spoken 82 
 
 Clarinda's age is fifty years, or so 152 
 
 Confess thee at the shrine of love 127 
 
 Come, kiss me 161 
 
 Come over the lea 93 
 
 Come, range with me 97 
 
 Come, sing me the song that I love 98 
 
 Come, then, love me 125 
 
204 INDEX. 
 
 D. PAGE 
 
 Deep in a caverned wood there lies 46 
 
 Do not forget me when away 113 
 
 E. 
 
 Each softer emotion 194 
 
 Ere the bloom of youth is wasted 163 
 
 Fair lady, who com'st here to tell Ill 
 
 Fanny, you foolish thing 178 
 
 Farewell! farewell! 130 
 
 Fill the bowl 37 
 
 Fill high with wine 86 
 
 First attribute of goodness 182 
 
 Forth to the world 102 
 
 H. 
 
 Hail to this sacred day ! 135 
 
 Hail ! empress of the skies 179 
 
 Hark! I hear the deep-toned bell 60 
 
 Has all thy fulsome flattery gone for naught? 188 
 
 Have you seen the sunbeams play? 15 
 
 Have you not seen, as slow declines away ? 67 
 
 Heard ye that plaintive, melancholy moan ? 134 
 
 How oft, when mem'ry 41 
 
 I love to gaze on the still twilight 11 
 
 I loved thee living 75 
 
 I saw thee first in youth's gay morn 106 
 
 I feel that death is on me 120 
 
 I feel unhappy for a cause 129 
 
 I love ye, is not that enough ? 149 
 
 I cannot, Phyllis, any longer wink 176 
 
 If to love is a sin 59 
 
IXDEX. 205 
 
 PAGE 
 
 If 'tis wicked to gaze 144 
 
 If any plant there is that blows 154 
 
 In doubt, bewildered, and amazed 44 
 
 In vain the tongue 153 
 
 Isabella has charms 108 
 
 It is not that I doubt thy love , 140 
 
 I've seen in pretty Julia's eye 101 
 
 I have basked in the sunshine 142 
 
 Julia, my pretty little prude 191 
 
 L. 
 
 Laura, what say you to a game at cards? 186 
 
 Laura, so thrifty of her time 200 
 
 Life is a dream of weal and wo 76 
 
 Like the one pretty rose of the vale 69 
 
 List to the sound, 'tis sweet to hear 141 
 
 Look at Belinda by the candle-light 124 
 
 Lydia, my wounded heart restore 68 
 
 M. 
 
 'Midst all the gay pleasures 119 
 
 My child ! O what a name is thine! 3 
 
 My dearest charmer! I would gladly pay 164 
 
 My little beauty, can you tell me? 33 
 
 N. 
 
 " No," is a word by women often said 166 
 
 No star was seen 170 
 
 No more will the lays 32 
 
 No, indeed, I can't have you! 36 
 
 Now green enchantment 56 
 
 O. 
 
 O'er hills and high mountains 71 
 
 Oft must the dismal tongue 25 
 
 O let the present hours efface 80 
 
206 INDEX. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 . O Louisa! believe me 198 
 
 O then think me not 19 
 
 O then bid me not speak of the past 43 
 
 O no ! the spell is broken 38 
 
 O ! what are the joys? 187 
 
 O yes ! give me to know 63 
 
 On some grassy couch 24 
 
 P. 
 
 Phyllis, lively, gay, and young ... 189 
 
 Pledge me, love 192 
 
 Poor Jane is crazed from sorrow 139 
 
 Poor lost Maria! 35 
 
 R. 
 
 Rejoice, rejoice 114 
 
 Remember thee ! yes 118 
 
 Rosa, whene'er I touch thy hand <• 177 
 
 S. 
 
 Say, lady, wherefore dost thou watch? 64 
 
 She wept in silence 17 
 
 Should some gay and lucky lover , 123 
 
 Slowly and silently 34 
 
 So apt a scholar 165 
 
 Soft music once 84 
 
 Some ancient said 133 
 
 Some artful belles 16 
 
 Some doubts, my love 55 
 
 Some say experience 162 
 
 Speak ! speak that word , 5 
 
 Spiteful as envy's self : 151 
 
 Such a bright colour 10 
 
 Such magic influence 193 
 
 Sweet Contemplation 99 
 
207 
 
 PAGE 
 
 T. 
 
 Tell me, my dear 23 
 
 Tell me, may I meet thee? 91 
 
 That little darling, Fanny, finds 155 
 
 That strain recalls 30 
 
 The bright tints in the bow 95 
 
 The heart's last throb 20 
 
 The low 'ring dark clouds 47 
 
 The eye that beams 52 
 
 The violet in bloom 4 g 
 
 The trumpet sounds 50 
 
 The time is like my thoughts 72 
 
 The wanton Cupid, when a child 74 
 
 The harp which once , 104 
 
 The faults of the fair sex U5 
 
 The poets say... 128 
 
 The demon who so madly dealt Igg 
 
 The summer is gone 195 
 
 There is a star . . 
 There was an ey 
 
 89 
 107 
 
 There is not, believe me 26 
 
 Though all the world say 12g 
 
 Though all the graces art can give 190 
 
 Though Apollo as lamp-lighter Igg, 
 
 Though the course of life 45 
 
 Though this life 92 
 
 Though the poets may sing , 13j 
 
 Through the fringed casement Ig4 
 
 'Tisapity 1 7 5 
 
 'Tis love, love, love gg 
 
 To the memory of my Father 1 
 
 To me no past thought Hg 
 
 To my Wife 85 
 
 To the sun IgO 
 
 Truly to love thee I74 
 
/, aft: - 
 
 208 INDEX. / i .. "^ 
 
 W. PAGE 
 
 Well, Where's the sin? ..... 18 
 
 What cause have I for hating . , ; 159 
 
 What an awkward predicament 132 
 
 What is love? 109 
 
 What shape the angels wear 9 
 
 When far from the land 49 
 
 When grief may fill my heart 103 
 
 When through life 12 
 
 When old Time was young , 167 
 
 When the heavens are bright 78 
 
 When the winter of age 143 
 
 When thy soft warblings 117 
 
 Who cares for what the world may say? 157 
 
 When Juno, Supplicating 96 
 
 Who can wonder few believe? 54 
 
 Who dared resist? . 27 
 
 Who is he rides so merrily? 145 
 
 Winter approaches 156 
 
 Y. 
 
 You ask me why 28 
 
 You saucy little jade 105 
 
 You little stingy, selfish thing 201 
 
 LONDOX; 
 
 r. MOVES, TOOK'S COURT, CH 
 
Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
 Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
 Treatment Date: April 2009 
 
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