He told her of his cruel fate,

Condemn'd alone to rove,

From infancy to man's estate,

Though courted by the fair and great,
Yet never once to love.

And then from many a poet's page
The blest reverse he proved :
How sweet to pass life's pilgrimage,
From purple youth to sere old age,
Aye loving and beloved!

Here ceased the youth; but still his words. Did o'er her fancy play;

They seem'd the matin song of birds,

Or like the distant low of herds

That welcomes in the day.

The sympathetiek chord she feels

Soft thrilling in her soul;

And, as the sweet vibration steals
Through every vein in tender peals
She seems to hear it roll.

Her alter'd heart, of late so drear,
Then seem'd a faery land,

Where nymphs and rosy loves appear
On margin green of fountain clear,
And frolick hand in hand.

But who shall paint her crimson blush,

Nor think his hand of stone,

As now the secret with a flush

Did o'er her aching senses rush—

Her heart was not her own!

The happy Lindor, with a look

That every hope confess'd,

Her glowing hand exulting took,
And press'd it, as she fearful shook,
In silence to his breast.

Myrtilla felt the spreading flame,
Yet knew not how to chide;

So sweet it mantled o'er her frame,

That, with a smile of pride and shame, She own'd herself his bride.

No longer then, ye fair, complain,

And call the fates unkind;

The high, the low, the meek, the vain, Shall each a sympathetick swain,

Another self shall find.

1

TO A LADY,

Who spoke slightingly of Poets.

Он, censure not the Poet's art,

Nor think it chills the feeling heart
To love the gentle Muses.
Can that which in a stone or flower,

As if by transmigrating power,

His gen'rous soul infuses ;

Can that for social joys impair

The heart that like the lib'ral air

All Nature's self embraces; That in the cold Norwegian main, Or mid the tropic hurricane

Her varied beauty traces;