Then why does lovely Laura cling
So closely to my panting breast?
And why betwixt her glowing hands
Is mine so grasp'd, so warmly prest?

Oh! if to Love and not to Fear

This dear, this close embrace I ow'd !Alas! vain thought-oh! bliss too great On hapless me to be bestow'd!

O Laura, feed me not with hopes
That flatter only to deceive---

Still, still you clasp me to your breast---
Shall I this happy dream believe?

Shall I believe 'twas virgin shame

The coy reserve I took for pride?

Or think this terror only feign'd

Thy glowing, trembling love to hide ?

Why art thou silent, lovely maid?

Why bend to earth those melting eyes? Why gently heaves this breast of snow? Why breathe these tender, stifled sighs?

A dimpled smile plays round thy mouth,

A warm blush mantles o'er thy cheek,— Spare, dearest Laura, spare thy words— That smile, that blush thy wishes speak.

Blest be the hour the thunder roar'd,

And blest the beamy lightning's glareIf after tempests come such calms,

The storm who would not boldly dare?

Blest be this cave, this happy cave,
Where lock'd in Laura's arms I lie,
While soft she murmurs in my ear,

"Thus would I live, thus would I die!"

EURILLA.

FROM ROLLI.

EURILLA's blue eyes, and her bright locks of gold

The breast of a Dervise with love might inflame; Fair as snow is her bosom, but ah ! 'tis more cold, And no vows the coy pride of the virgin can tame.

I said to my heart: "'tis in vain to pursue "A nymph that disdains thee, nor heeds thy fond pray'r;

"Alas! foolish heart, 'tis in vain thou art true “To one, who, tho' lovely, is cruel as fair !”

"The fault is not mine,"--with a sigh it replies,--"That my passion in spite of her scorn ne'er grows colder,

"The anguish I suffer I owe to your eyes,

"Ere I cease to adore--you must cease to behold

her.

A LOVER LIKENED TO A CLOCK.

FROM PETRARCH.

DEAR

EAR Laura, I'm a clock !---" a clock !" you cry--Yes---and for one sweet kiss I'll tell thee why. My thoughts---and often busy fancy steal Oe'r all thy glowing beauties---are the wheels ; This heart that loves--ah! could I say how well It loves its fair enchantress !---is the bell, On which the god of love, propitious Power, Strikes with his dart each gay revolving hour; And thy perfection that inflames my soul Is the dear mainspring that directs the whole.

TO LAURA.

FROM FRUGONI.

THE ROSE.

THE Morn first views, O lovely Rose, The bursting germ thy charms disclose,

And hails thee queen of flowers--

For who so sweetly scents the air,
Or blushes with a glow so fair,

In all Arcadia's bowers?

Yes---from the east with swifter speed
Aurora guides her panting steed

Thy beauteous form to view

With thee alone she crowns her head,
While from her burnish'd car is shed
On thee, her freshest dew.

When the gay mother of the Love
Wantons the day in Ida's groves,

Thou to her lips art prest;

While the fond zephyrs of her train

Breathe their soft sighs--nor sigh in vain--

And nestle on thy breast.