The Bride .

O Let him seal his lips on mine,
His kisses breathe a love divine:
No juice the generous Vine can bear,
May with thy sweeter love compare.
The precious ointments on thee shed,
Around their liberal odors spread,
And with their odors spread thy fame,
Sweet, as rich oils diffus'd, thy name,
Thy name the virgins hearts inspires
With sacred love and pure desires.
Draw me by thy almighty charms;
We'll run, we'll fly into thy arms.
Me, happy me! the king of kings
Into his bridal chambers brings!

IN IMITATION OF HORACE'S ART OF POETRY .

Should some strange poet in his piece affect
Pope's nervous style, with Cibber's jokes bedeck'd,
Prink Milton's true sublime with Cowley's wit,
And garnish Blackmore's Job with Swift's conceit,
Would you not laugh? Trust me, that priest's as bad,
Who in a style now grave, now raving mad,
Gives the wild whims of dreaming schoolmen vent,
Whilst drowsy congregations nod assent.
Painters and priests, 'tis true, great licence claim,
And by bold strokes have often rose to fame:

XI.

If audible utterance then was mine
I know not; but my spirit cried
To her who from the far confine
Of bliss had wander'd to my side —
" O, earliest, latest, only love,
Forgive the heart where thou wast throned,
Its lapses from the life above,
Thy better influence disown'd!

XII.

" Forgive me for the scoffer's taunt,
The worldling's greed of wealth and power,
Or mean supremacies that vaunt

VI.

One eve within a tangled wood
I roam'd ere sunset; pine and oak
And young acacia stemm'd the flood
Of tidal gold that else had broke
In dazzling glory o'er my course;
Now, glancing through the leafy shade,
It struck the boughs with softening force,
Or, wavering round the stems, it play'd.

VII.

The woodbine quiver'd in its glow;
The wild bee, with transfigured wing,

I.

Escaped the noise and whirl of town,
The feverish toil, the narrow aim
Of those who struggle for the crown
Of fortune or of fleeting fame,
A wearied mind, a heart bereft
Of trust and love, I with me bore,
Nor sigh'd to quit the land I left,
Nor smiled to reach the further shore.

II.

And yet that new-found coast was fair —
A bay where arching aisles of rock
On each hand lift their spires in air,

Ah ! Nature can reproach as well as soothe,
To her may Virtue from the world repair
For health and consolation; nor in vain.
For in her youth perpetually renewed,
Procession calm, and unsuspended life —
Is symbolised the tranquil might of Love,
And Truth's serene immutability.
Thus, still, by holier minds the type is hailed
As earnest of Ahuman altitude,
Hereafter to be won. But idly here
Shall vexed Ambition or worn Avarice court
Repose and vigour. In their order due
The plains resume their verdure, and the hills

FICTION ! Poetry
Lives but by truth. Truth is its heart. Bards write
The life of soul — the only life. Each line
Breathes life — or nothing. Fiction! Who narrates
The stature of a man, his gait, his dress,
The colour of his hair, what meats he loved,
Where he abode, what were his favourite haunts
His place and time of birth, his age at death,
And how much crape and cambric mourned his end —
Writes a biography ! But who records
The yearnings of the heart, its joys, and pangs,
Its alternating apathy, and hope,

EACH Philosophy
Is centered in the being of the Sage —
Or Fool, mayhap — terms are indifferent.
A general error oft is private truth;
What's falsehood here, is there veracity;
The right hand's nothing is the left hand's all!
For natures as they limit, or expand,
Determine faith or doubt, — ourselves the bound
To our own fate. That Caterpillar's bliss
Is in luxuriant idleness to crawl
O'er the sweet leaves of roses, wondering
Why yonder Bee should wear his wings with toil
Touring from flower to flower. Perchance the Bee

O GLORIOUS thought, not with the frame's decay
The life and office of man's spirit ends;
Its inspiration dwells enshrined in act.
A Statue's silence is the Sculptor's voice.
The Painter's immortality resides
In his own forms, and objects. Attitude,
Expression, light, and shade, the tint so fine
It half eludes the eye, — for Earth retain,
In Death's despite, his soul! — And he around
Whose pathway lingered haunting harmonies —
Spirits of Beauty tenanting a sound, —
Lives in his record of their ministry!
Poets, and Sages, thus perpetuate

Oh ! speech is poor to paint a difference
I feel so vast! Trust, honour, tenderness —
The all that friendship asks — compose not love!
Friendship still keeps distinction. Friends are twain,
But lovers one!
Friends are two kings in dear confederance join'd,
That still rule separate empires; but in love
Both realms united, take one name, one tongue,
One law, one faith, one consequence, one crown!
Friends are two banks a kindly stream divides;
Lovers — twin clouds into each other blent
And bath'd in the same beam. Friends are like trees