And when even love no more supplies
When weary nature sinks to rest;
May brighter, steadier light arise,

And make the parting moment blest!

TO A LADY, WITH SOME POETICAL
EXTRACTS.

the mind,

SAY, shall thine eye, and with the eye
Dwell on a work for thee alone design'd?
Traced by my hand, selected by my heart,
Will it not pleasure to a friend impart ;
And her dear smile an ample payment prove
For this light labour of aspiring love?

Read, but with partial mind, the themes I choose: A friend transcribes, and let a friend peruse: This shall a charm to every verse impart, And the cold line shall reach the willing heart: For willing hearts the tamest song approve, All read with pleasure when they read with love.

There are no passions to the Muse unknown, Fear, sorrow, hope, joy, pity are her own: She gives to each the strength, the tone, the power, By varying moods to suit the varying hour; She plays with each, and veils in changing robes The grief she pities, and the love she probes.

"T is hers for wo the sullen smile to feign, And Laughter lend to Envy's rankling pain;

Soft Pity's look to Scorn, mild Friendship's to Disdain. Joy inexpressive with her tear she veils,

And weeps her transport, where expression fails.

TO A LADY ON LEAVING HER AT

SIDMOUTH.

YES! I must go

- it is a part

That cruel Fortune has assign'd me,

Must go, and leave, with aching heart,
What most that heart adores, behind me.

Still I shall see thee on the sand

Till o'er the space the water rises,
Still shall in thought behind thee stand,
And watch the look affection prizes.

But ah! what youth attends thy side,
With eyes that speak his soul's devotion
To thee as constant as the tide

That gives the restless wave its motion ?

Still in thy train must he appear,

For ever gazing, smiling, talking?
Ah! would that he were sighing here,
And I were there beside thee walking !

Wilt thou to him that arm resign,

Who is to that dear heart a stranger,
And with those matchless looks of thine
The peace of this poor youth endanger?

Away this fear that fancy makes

When night and death's dull image hide thee:
In sleep, to thee my mind awakes ;
Awake, it sleeps to all beside thee.

Who could in absence bear the pain
Of all this fierce and jealous feeling,
But for the hope to meet again,

And see those smiles all sorrow healing?

Then shall we meet, and, heart to heart,
Lament that fate such friends should sever,

And I shall say - "We must not part;"

"

And thou wilt answer "Never, never!"

TO SARAH, COUNTESS OF JERSEY, ON HER
BIRTHDAY.

Of all the subjects poetry commands,
Praise is the hardest nicely to bestow;
'Tis like the streams in Afric's burning sands,
Exhausted now, and now they overflow.

As heaping fuel on a kindling fire,

So deals a thoughtless poet with his praise; For when he would the cheerful warmth inspire, He chokes the very thing he hopes to raise.

How shall I, then, the happy medium hit,
And give the just proportion to my song?
How speak of beauty, elegance, and wit,

Yet fear at once t' offend thee and to wrong?
Sure to offend, if far the Muse should soar,
And sure to wrong thee if her strength I spare ;
Still, in my doubts, this comfort I explore-
That all confess what I must not declare.

Yet, on this day, in every passing year,
Poets the tribute of their praise may bring;
Nor should thy virtues then be so severe,
As to forbid us of thy worth to sing.
Still I forbear: for why should I portray

Those looks that seize that mind that wins

the heart

Since all the world, on this propitious day,
Will tell how lovely and how good thou art.

TO A LADY WHO DESIRED SOME VERSES
AT PARTING.

OH! do not ask the Muse to show
Or how we met, or how we part:
The bliss, the pain, too well I know,
That seize in turn this faithful heart.

That meeting- it was tumult all—

The eye was pleased, the soul was glad; But thus to memory I recall,

And feel the parting doubly sad.

Yes, it was pleasant so to meet

For us, who fear'd to meet no more, When every passing hour was sweet Sweeter, we thought, than all before. When eye from eye new meanings steal, When hearts approach, and thoughts unite Then is, indeed, the time to feel,

But, Laura! not a time to write.

And when at length compell'd to part,
When fear is strong, and fancy weak,
When in some distant good the heart
For present ease is forced to seek, —
When hurried spirits fall and rise,
As on the changing views we dwell,
How vainly then the sufferer tries

In studied verse his pains to tell!

Time brings, indeed, his slow relief,

In whom the passions live and die;
He gives the bright'ning smile to grief,
And his the soft consoling sigh:
Till then, we vainly wish the power
To paint the grief, or use the pen :
But distant far that quiet hour;

And I must feel and grieve till then.

END OF THE FIFTH VOLUME.