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There is a sigh---short, deep and strong,
That on the lip of rapture dies;
It floats mild evening's shade along,
When meet the fond consenting eyes.
There is a sigh---that speaks regret,
Yet seems scarce conscious of its pain,
It tells of bliss remember'd yet,

Of bliss that ne'er must wake again.
There is a sigh---that deeply breath'd
Bespeaks the bosom's secret woe,
It says, the flowers that Love had wreath'd,
Are wither'd ne'er again to blow.

There is a sigh---that slowly swells,
Then deeply breathes its load of care,
It speaks, that in the bosom dwells,
That last worst pang, fond Love's despair.

ALEXANDER G....G.

ADDRESS TO ELIZA

ON THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER,

Or a Sequel to "The Invitation." "TWAS lately, Eliza, thy breast to adorn,

I pluckt the sweet bloom from the lilac and thorn; That amid the fair tresses those braids now confine, A gay floral wreath I did fondly entwine;

That together o'er hills and thro' vallies we stray'd,
And their verdant profusion delighted survey'd;
While I hailed you my charmer! my heart's belov'd
queen!

My goddess and nymph of the wild sylvan scene!
Eliza, my dear, the enchantment is past!
All nature now shrinks at the autumnal blast.
The paths they are devious that lately we trod---
The grove is not fresh, nor enamell'd the sod---
For Flora alas! has withdrawn her sweet sway;
And the pride of the woodlands is dying away.
Yet fairest of women! within thee combin'd,
All the beauties of Spring and of Summer I find;

H H

On which sweet attractions enraptured I'll dwell,
Regretless of all that now bids us farewell.
Thy breath to inhale, as I steal the fond kiss---
Ah! where is the fragrance that's sweeter than this ;
The myrtle, the pink, or the soft vernal air

A may-morning breathes, must not with it compare.
Thy tresses to me more luxuriant shall seem,
Than the boughs that with nectarines lusciously teem;
And as the fresh hue of thy cheeks I admire,
Or lilies, or roses, ah can I desire!

No, Flora in vain all her treasures might spread,
To allure my fond gaze thus bewitchingly led.
Tho' Phoebus no longer his beam shall display,
Thine eyes shall emit as effulgent a ray;

And cheer'd by such splendour, I well may forego
Every charm that awaits on the sun's fervid glow.
I own 'tis a pleasure, sequestered to rove,
And list to the chaunt that enlivens the grove;
Yet thy voice---ah! how much do its accents outvie
The music of all the wing'd songsters that fly!
Eliza my fairest! If thou art but near,

'Tis Spring, or 'tis Summer with me all the year;
If absent, all nature's attractions they fail;
And Winter's dark glooms in my bosom prevail.
Oh! then thus for ever, may fancy take wing,
And fly from the phantoms dull seasons might bring,
And thou be my goddess, all beauteous in mien!
My angel to bless this terrestrial scene!

October 3, 1818.

STANZAS,

D. D.

Written after viewing an Execution for Murder at
Dorchester, the 27th of July, 1818.

WARN'D by the sullen knell from yon grey tower,
Whose deep vibrations spread a general gloom,
Pensive I ventured at th' appointed hour,

To view the murd'rers ignominious doom!
Great was the throng whom different motives drew
Around the soul-revolting scene of woe;---

N.

1 mark'd the wondering boy,---the maiden too,--And heads that show'd full many a Winter's snow!

1

The whilst the wretch upon the platform knelt,
And offer'd up warm orisons to heaven,
That all his load of wrath-deserving guilt
Might, by a gracious Saviour, be forgiven ;---
Still as the treacherous calm that ushers in

The dreadful concert of the warring spheres, Stood the spectators of th' appalling scene--Nor few, I hope, were pity's heav'nly tears! But when suspended from the tree he hung, And one convulsive throe told life was o'er; A shriek from all the awe-struck crowd up-sprung, That thrill'd the very threads of my heart's core! Homewards I turn'd as died the last long knoll--And when the dead man's crimes to thought recurr'd, I trembled for the disembodied soul,

'Till blue-ey'd Hope's celestial strains I heard ;--'What mortal's bold, unholy tongue presumes To pass eternal sentence on the dead? That power, who such prerogative assumes,--Who erst on Calvary's awful summit bled,-May look in mercy where his ashes rest, And give him peace perennial with the blest.'

A PARODY

ON

"TO BE, OR NOT TO BE."

TO write, or not to write? that is the question!
Whether 'tis better with a pen to scribble

The flights and fancies of outrageous nonsense,
Or to lay down the quill and cease to trouble
The patience of the world? To write, to scrawl;
And by that scrawl to say we utter all

The horrid stuff! The thousand foolish whimsies
That labour in the brain' 'tis a deliverance
Devoutly to be wish'd. To write, to scrawl--

To scrawl---perchance to blot! ah! There's the rub!
For, on a stricter view, what blots may come
When we have scribbled all the paper o'er,

Must give us pause! There's the respect

That stops the weak presumptuous hand of fools.
For who would bear the sneers and scorns of wit,
The critic's laugh, the learned pedant's railing,
The spurns and insolence of common sense,
The jokes of humour, and the repartee,
When he himself might his quietus make.
With mere blank paper? Who would hisses hear,
Or groan and sweat at sound of Catcall's squeak,
But that the itch of writing for the stage
Puzzles the will, the judgment leads astray,
And makes us rather risk all ridicule,
Than shun the muses and forbear to rhyme.
Ambition thus makes asses of us all!
And thus each empty fellow, void of genius,
Is tempted to imagine he's a poet;

And Petits Maitres, of great skill in dressing,
Even from the favorite mirror turn away,
To gain the name of author.

Soho, October, 1818

SANGRADO.

A FRAGMENT.

"Twas sweet to sit beneath thine eye,
And in its lustre softly sigh,

Ashamed, afraid, yet blest,--

To feel its wild beams seek my heart,
And read what words could ne'er impart,
Then sun it into rest:

It was a calm, so soft, so deep,
It felt like infants' summer sleep,
Within their mothers' arms;
A slumber which a kiss might break,
Love's lightest breath might bid awake,
To sweet, yet dread ålarms!

END OF VOL. II.

PSYCHE.

J. Arliss, Printer, London.

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