And I shall lift the locks, that flow
Unbraided o'er her lids of snow,
And softly kiss those sealed eyes,
And wake her into sweet surprise!
Or if she dream, oh! let her dream
Of those delights we both have known
And felt so truly, that they seem
Form'd to be felt by us alone!

And I shall mark her kindling check,
Shall see her bosom warmly move,
And hear her faintly, lowly speak

The murmur'd sounds so dear to love!
Oh! I shall gaze, till even the sigh,
That wafts her very soul, be nigh,
And when the nymph is all but blest,
Sink in her arms and share the rest!
Sweet Laïs! what an age of bliss
In that one moment waits for me!
O sages!-think on joy like this,

And where's your boast of apathy!

TO

MRS. BL-H—D.

WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM.

Τετο δε τι εστι το ποτον ; πλανη, έφη.

Cebetis Tabulu.

THEY

say that Love had once a book, The urchin likes to copy you)

Where, all who came the pencil took,
And wrote, like us, a line or two,

'Twas Innocence, the maid divine, Who kept this volume bright and fair, And saw that no unhallow'd line,

Or thought profane should enter there.

And sweetly did the pages fill

With fond device and loving lore, And every leaf she turn'd was still

More bright than that she turn'd before!

Beneath the touch of Hope, how soft,
How light the magic pencil ran!
Till Fear would come, alas! as oft,

And trembling close what Hope began.

A tear or two had dropp'd from Grief,
And Jealousy would, now and then,
Ruffle in haste some snowy leaf,

Which Love had still to smooth again!

But, oh! there was a blooming boy,
Who often turn'd the pages o'er,

And wrote therein such words of joy,

As all who read still sigh'd for more!

And Pleasure was this spirit's name,

And though so soft his voice and look, Yet Innocence, whene'er he came,

Would tremble for her spotless book!

For still she saw his playful fingers
Fill'd with sweets and wanton toys;
And well she knew the stain that lingers
After sweets from wanton boys!

And so it chanc'd, one luckless night
He let his honey-goblet fall

O'er the dear book, so pure, so white,

And sullied lines and marge and all!

In vain he sought, with eager lip,

The honey from the leaf to drink, For still the more the boy would sip, The deeper still the blot would sink!

Oh! it would make you weep to see
The traces of this honey flood
Steal o'er a page where Modesty

Had freshly drawn a rose's bud!

And Fancy's emblems lost their glow,
And Hope's sweet lines were all defac❜d,
And Love himself could scarcely know
What Love himself had lately trac'd!

At length the urchin Pleasure fled,

(For how, alas! could Pleasure stay?) And Love, while many a tear he shed, In blushes flung the book away!

The index now alone remains,

Of all the pages spoil'd by Pleasure, And though it bears some honey Stains, Yet Memory counts the leaf a treasure!

And oft, they say, she scans it o'er,
And oft, by this memorial aided,

Brings back the pages now no more,

And thinks of lines, that long are faded!

B b

I know not if this tale be true,

But thus the simple facts are stated; And I refer their truth to you,

Since Love and you are near related!