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Let me twine a wreath of roses,

Where the fairies' steps have been, Round thy brow where sweet reposes,

The bloom and beauty of their queen; And as I mingle them among

The tresses of thy golden hair, I'll sing to thee a soothing song,

Of love, and roses, oh! so fair.

And as thou heark’nest to the tone,

That binds thee with its magic thrall, Thy gentle, dreaming heart will own

That music's sigh is best of all; And I will sing and still twine on,

. Until I've weav'd the rosy chain, And when the song and odour's done,

Thou'lt ask me to begin again.




Her eyes the glowworme lend thee,
The shooting starres attend thee,

And the elves also,

Whose little eyes glow
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee!

No will-o’th'wispe mislight thee,
Nor snake nor slowworme bite thee;

But on, thy way,

Not making a stay, Since ghost there's none to affright thee !

Let not the darke thee cumber;
What though the moon does slumber,

The starres of the night

Will lend thee their light Like tapers cleare without number!

Then, Julia, let me wooe thee,
Thus, thus, to come unto me;

And, when I shall meet

Thy silv'ry feet,
My soule I'll poure unto thee.



Oh! that the Chemist's magic art

Could crystallize this sacred treasure! Long should it glitter near my heart,

A secret source of pensive pleasure.

The little brilliant, ere it fell,

Its lustre caught from Chloe's eye ; Then, trembling, left its coral cell,—

The spring of Sensibility!

Sweet drop of pure and pearly light!

In thee the rays of virtue shine,More calmly clear, more mildly bright,

Than any gem that gilds the mine.

Benign restorer of the soul !

Who ever fly'st to bring relief, When first we feel the rude control

Of love or pity, joy or grief.

The sage's and the poet's theme,

In every clime-in every age ; Thou charm'st in fancy's idle dream,

In reason's philosophic page.

That very law which moulds a tear,

And bids it trickle from its source, That law preserves the earth a sphere,

And guides the planets in their course.



On a day (alack the day!)
Love, whose month is ever May,
Spied a blossom, passing fair,
Playing in the wanton air:
Through the velvet leaves the wind,

All unseen, 'gan passage find;
That the lover, sick to death,
Wish'd himself the heaven's-breath.
Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;
Air, would I might triumph so!
But alack, my hand is sworn,

pluck thee from thy thorn:
Vow, alack, for youth unineet;
Youth so apt to pluck a sweet.
Do not call it sin in me,
That I am forsworn for thee;
Thou for whom Jove would swear,
Juno but an Ethiop were;
And deny himself for Jove,
Turning mortal for thy love.


Love, passionate young Love, how sweet it is
To have the bosom made a paradise
By thee, life light'd by thy rainbow smile!


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