And when a garland for his fair

The lover wreathes, were thou not there,

The gift would be despis'd;

For thou, of every flower, sweet Rose,

That April from her green lap throws,'

Art most beloved and priz'd.

But swiftly, swiftly flies the hour

That views thy triumph thoughtless flower,

And soon thy beauties fade;

Then check that youthful pride, dear Rose,
That vainly would thy form expose,
And seek, ah! seek the shade!

Tho' Flora o'er thy cheeks has spread
Her loveliest tint of glowing red,

And fenced thee round with thorns,
Short is the reign the goddess gave---
That spot ere long will be thy grave
Thy beauty now adorns.

Fainting beneath the noon-tide beam,
Far from the shade or cooling stream,

Thou'lt mourn the hapless doom

That bared thy bosom to the Day,
And gave thee to his arms a prey

To wither all thy bloom.

Tho' now so lovely fair to view,

Ere thou can'st drink Eve's fresh'ning dew,

How pale will be that cheek!

Then seek, sweet rose--but ah! in vain, Unheard I urge the friendly strain--Thou diest--e'en while I speak.

And thou, with youth's gay hopes elate, In yon poor flower's early fate

Dear Laura see thy own

The lily of that swelling breast,

Those smiles, too sweet to be exprest,

Will soon, too soon be flown.

Let pity beaming in thine eyes
Bid my fond heart forget its sighs!

O bid me cease to mourn!

O give to joy the present day!

While the young loves around thee playOnce fled, they ne'er return.

THE COMPLAINT.

FROM ROLLI.

GRANT to a heart with anguish breaking,

Ye woods and wilds, some short repose, Amid your silent horrors seeking Scenes congenial to its woes.

The sportive dance, the sprightly measure
Please no more my jaundic'd eye,

I sicken at the sight of pleasure,
I loath the light and wish to die.

Tell me, ye shades, if here retiring
My Laura's angel form you see?---
Alas! how vain for her inquiring!

For her, who wanders far from me.

How oft, beneath yon bower of roses,
On that bank of violets blue,
Where the fairy train reposes,

And sips the cowslip's honied dew,

Her snowy breast with rapture heaving
Has to my glowing heart been prest!
While to my lips her soft lips cleaving

In murmuring sounds her love exprest.

But swiftly fly the hours of pleasure,
Swift as the rainbow's fleeting form,
Ere you can seize the lovely treasure
Vanishing amid the storm!

O, tell me then, dear shades, if ever Our fond hearts again shall meet ?— Echo seems to answer, "Never!" Shrouded in her cool retreat.

I hear a gentle murmur dying

On the woodbine-scented gale-→→

Is it Laura softly sighing,

"Haste my quick return to hail?"

No, 'twas yon rill o'er pebbles straying, Murmuring in pity of my pain,

On whose breast the moonbeam playing

Points where it steals across the plain.

May Love, sweet maid, thy breast inspiring,
Lead thee to these shades once more,

Ere my heart with madness firing
Cease thy absence to deplore.

But haste, or vain were thy returning,
Unless to view my early doom,

Or drop a tear with anguish burning
Upon thy faithful lover's tomb.

THE RIVAL.

FROM FAUSTINA MARATTI.

Too beauteous Rival, whose enticing charms Once to my heart's sole darling seem'd so fair, That oft he praises still thy ivory arms,

Thy ruby lips, blue eyes, and auburn hair; Say, when he heard thy tongue's seducing strain, Stood he e'er silent, or with scorn replied?

Or turn'd with alter'd brow of cold disdain

From thy soft smiles, as now from mine, aside?