By day or night, in weal or woe,

That heart, no longer free,
Must bear the love it cannot show,

And silent ache for thee.

BYRON

TO FRANCES.

Sweet as the rose that scents the gale,
Bright as the lily of the vale,
Yet with a heart like summer hail,

Marring each beauty thou bearest.

Beauty like thine, all nature thrills;
And when the moon her circle fills,
Pale she beholds those rounder hills,

Which on the breast thou wearest.

Where could those peerless flow'rets blow? Whence are the thorns that near them grow?

Wound me,

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,

Apd 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 !

H, MUNROE.

THE LILAC.

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.