O sigh, yet feel no pain;

To weep, yet scarce know why;
To sport an hour with Beauty's chain,
Then throw it idly by.

To kneel at many a shrine,

Yet lay the heart on none;
To think all other charms divine,
But those we just have won.

This is love, faithless love,

Such as kindleth hearts that rove.

To keep one sacred flame,

Through life unchill'd, unmoved;
To love, in wintry age, the same
As first in youth we loved;

To feel that we adore,

Ev'n to such fond excess,

That, though the heart would break, with more,

It could not live with less.

This is love, faithful love,

Such as saints might feel above.



YOUNG Jessica sat all the day,

With heart o'er idle love-thoughts pining;

Her needle bright beside her lay,

So active once!-now idly shining.

Ah, Jessy! 'tis in idle hearts

That love and mischief are most nimble;

The safest shield against the darts

Of Cupid, is Minerva's thimble.

The child who with a magnet plays,
Well knowing all its arts, so wily,
The tempter near a needle lays,

And laughing says, "We'll steal it slily." The needle, having nought to do,

Is pleased to let the magnet wheedle ; Till closer, closer come the two,

And-off, at length, elopes the needle.

Now, had this needle turn'd its eye
To some gay reticule's construction,
It ne'er had stray'd from duty's tie,
Nor felt the magnet's sly seduction.
Thus, girls, would you keep quiet hearts,
Your snowy fingers must be nimble;
The safest shield against the darts
Of Cupid, is Minerva's thimble.



OUNG Love lived once in an humble shed,
Where roses breathing,

And woodbines wreathing

Around the lattice their tendrils spread,

As wild and sweet as the life he led.

His garden flourish'd,

For young Hope nourish'd

The infant buds with beams and showers; But lips, though blooming, must still be fed, And not even Love can live on flowers.

Alas! that Poverty's evil eye

Should e'er come hither,

Such sweets to wither!

The flowers laid down their heads to die,

And Hope fell sick as the witch drew nigh.

She came one morning,

Ere Love had warning,

And raised the latch, where the young god lay ; Oh ho!" said Love-" is it you? good-bye;" So he oped the window, and flew away!



AY, what shall be our sport to-day?

There's nothing on earth, in sea, or air, Too bright, too high, too wild, too gay, For spirits like mine to dare!

"Tis like the returning bloom

Of those days, alas! gone by,

When I loved, each hour-I scarce knew whomAnd was bless'd-I scarce knew why.

Ay-those were days when life had wings,
And flew, oh, flew so wild a height,
That, like the lark which sunward springs,
"T was giddy with too much light!
And though of some plumes bereft,
With that sun, too, nearly set,
I've enough of light and wing still left
For a few gay soarings yet.

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