ON THE LOSS OF

A LETTER INTENDED FOR NÉA.

OH! it was fill'd with words of flame,
With all the wishes wild and dear,
Which love may write, but dares not name,
'Which woman reads, but must not hear!

Of many a nightly dream it told,

When all that chills the heart by day,
The worldly doubt, the caution cold,
In fancy's fire dissolve away!

When soul and soul divinely meet,
Free from the senses' guilty shame,

And mingle in a sigh so sweet,

As virtue's self would blush to blame!

How could he lose such tender words!

Words! that, of themselves, should spring

TO NEA's ear, like panting birds,

With heart and soul upon their wing!

Oh! fancy what they dar'd to speak;
Think all a virgin's shame can dread,
Nor pause, until thy conscious cheek
Shall burn with thinking all they said!

And I shall feign, shall fancy too,

Some dear reply thou might'st have giv'n; Shall make that lip distill its dew

In promise bland and hopes of heaven!

Shall think it tells of future days,
When the averted cheek will turn,
When eye with eye shall mingle rays,
And lip to lip shall closely burn!—

Ah! if this flattery is not thine,

If colder hope thy answer brings,
I'll wish thy words were lost like mine,

Since I can dream such dearer things!

I FOUND her not the chamber seem'd
Like some divinely haunted place,
Where fairy forms had lately beam'd,
And left behind their odorous trace!

It felt as if her lips had shed

A sigh around her, ere she fled,
Which hung, as on a melting lute,
When all the silver chords are mute,
There lingers still a trembling breath
After the note's luxurious death,
A shade of song, a spirit air

Of melodies which had been there!

I saw the web, which, all the day,
Had floated o'er her cheek of rose;
I saw the couch, where late she lay
In languor of divine repose!

And I could trace the hallow'd print
Her limbs had left, as pure and warm,

As if 'twere done in rapture's mint,
And love himself had stamp'd the form!

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Oh NEA! NEA! where wert thou? In pity fly not thus from me; Thou art my life, my essence now,

And my soul dies of wanting thee!

A KISS A L'ANTIQUE.

BEHOLD, my love, the curious gem
Within this simple ring of gold;
'Tis hallow'd by the touch of them
Who liv'd in classic hours of old.

Some fair Athenian girl, perhaps,
Upon her hand this gem display'd,
Nor thought that time's eternal lapse
Should see it grace a lovelier maid!

Look, darling, what a sweet design!

The more we gaze, it charms the more: Come-closer bring that cheek to mine, And trace with me its beauties o'er.

Thou see'st, it is a simple youth,

By some enamour'd nymph embrac’d— Look, NEA, love! and say, in sooth,

Is not her hand most dearly plac'd?