Sighing, I view that cypress waist,
Doom'd to afflict me till embraced;
Sighing, I view that eye, too chaste,
Like the new blossom smiling.

Spreading thy toils with hands divine,
Softly thou wavest like a pine,
Darting thy shafts at hearts like mine,
Senses and soul beguiling.

See at thy feet no vulgar slave,
Frantic with love's enchanting wave,
Thee, ere he seek the gloomy grave,
Thee his blest idol styling.

SIR W. JONES.

ROSY HANNAH.

A spring, o'erhung with many a flower, The grey sand dancing in its bed, Embank'd beneath a hawthorn bower, Sent forth its waters near my head:

A rosy lass approach'd my view:

I caught her blue eye's modest beam: The stranger nodded “ How d'ye do!" And leap'd across the infant stream.

The water, heedless, pass'd away :
With me her glowing image stay'd;
I strove, from that auspicious day,
To meet and bless the lovely maid.
I met her where beneath our feet
Through downy moss the wild thyme
grew;

Nor moss elastic, flow'rs though sweet,
Match'd Hannah's cheek of rosy hue.

I met her where the dark woods wave,
And shaded verdure skirts the plain;
And when the pale moon rising gave
New glories to her clouded train.
From her sweet cot upon the moor,

Our plighted vows to heaven are flown;
Truth made me welcome at her door,

And rosy Hannah is my own.

BLOOMFIELD.

MY BEAUTIFUL MARY.

(A BALLAD.)

OH, couldst thou but love me,
My beautiful Mary!
With thy laughing blue eye,
And thy step like a fairy;

I would bear thee away

To a far summer isle,

Where soft music and love

Should our moments beguile,

Where the gentlest of gales
Which the East only knows,
With perfume comes fraught

From the sighs of the rose ;Where the sun, never sets

O'er the still, heaveless main, But the sweetest of flow'rs

Weep for him again.

Oh, there would I build thee
An altar to truth,

And there would we worship
In the sunshine of youth;
One star for my guide,

That star shouldst thou be,
If my beautiful Mary,

Could only love me!

THE LILAC.

H. MUNROE.

O were my love yon lilac fair,
With purple blossoms to the spring;
And I a bird to shelter there,

When weary'd on my little wing;

How I would mourn, when it was torn By autumn wild! and winter rude! And I would sing on wanton wing, When youthful May its bloom renew'd.

BURNS.

CANZONET.

LOVE and Joy one April day,
Stole a fragile bark, they say;
But, when once she was afloat,
Quarrel'd which should steer the boat;
Love grew angry, seized his quiver,
And struck poor Joy into the river;

And though his pinions buoy'd him on the

wave;

And though he pray'd and wept, Love would

not save,

But frowning turn'd away- he found a wat'ry grave!

Still the bark is sailing on,

And Love steers her all alone;

Mournful sits the cruel boy,

Weeping for the death of Joy,

Whose phantom sometimes flits around the

mast,

Recalling all the brightness of the past.
But if repentant Love woos the light form

to stay,

He spreads his rainbow wings and flies away.

CROFT.