IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH .

Yes, these are the scenes where with Iris I stray'd,
But short was her sway for so lovely a maid!
In the bloom of her youth to a cloister she run,
In the bloom of her graces too fair for a nun!
Ill-grounded, no doubt, a devotion must prove,
So fatal to beauty, so killing to love!

Yes, these are the meadows, the shrubs, and the plains,
Once the scene of my pleasures, the scene of my pains;
How many soft moments I spent in this grove!
How fair was my nymph! and how fervent my love!

" Break ev'ry yoke; " the Gospel cries,
" And let th' oppress'd go free; "
Let ev'ry burden'd captive rise,
And taste sweet Liberty.

Lord! when shall man thy voice obey,
And rend each iron chain?
Oh! when shall Love its golden sway
O'er all the earth maintain?

Send thy good Spirit from above,
And melt th' oppressor's heart;
Send swift deliv'rance to the slave,
And bid his woes depart.

With joy and gladness crown his day,
And fill his heart with love;
Teach him the strait and only way,

The blaze that scorched my flesh of old
Is quenched and dim: I die of cold.
Love's furnace panting in its greed
Has now but bones whereon to feed,
And my poor heart, to ashes turned,
Has naught within it left unburned.
E'en as some altar at the close of day,
Its victim spent, untended dies away.

I told my nymph, I told her true,
My fields were small, my flocks were few,
While falt'ring accents spoke my fear,
That Flavia might not prove sincere.

Of crops destroy'd by vernal cold,
And vagrant sheep that left my fold;
Of these she heard, yet bore to hear;
And is not Flavia then sincere?

How, changed by Fortune's fickle wind,
The friends I loved became unkind;
She heard, and shed a generous tear;
And is not Flavia then sincere?

How, if she deign my love to bless,
My Flavia must not hope for dress;

WRITTEN AT OXFORD, WHEN YOUNG .

Shall Love alone for ever claim
An universal right to fame,
An undisputed sway?
Or has not Music equal charms,
To fill the breast with strange alarms.
And make the world obey?

The Thracian bard, as poets tell,
Could mitigate the powers of hell,
E'en Pluto's nicer ear:
His arts, no more than Love's, we find
To deities or men confined,
Drew brutes in crowds to hear.

My land is a woman who knows
Not the child at her breast.
All her quest
Hath been gold.
All her joys, all her woes
With the thin, yellow leaf are unrolled.
And here is my grief that no longer she cares
For the tumult that crowds in a rune
When the white curving throat of a cataract bares
In a song to the high floating moon.
I am Caneo,
The poet she loves not, grown bold.
Bold am I as all men grow bold
Who wash themselves long in the sun:
I know what she lost when she gathered the gold
And she alone knows what she won.

Bold love has led me here;
So let me in, I pray,
If my love sleeps alone;
If not I'll go away.
And give this token of my passion true:
" Reeling with wine, through thieves I came to you."

The sound of Love still rings within my ears,
Still from my eyes in silence flow sweet tears,
Nor night nor day can give my anguish rest;
Love charms have fixed one thought within my breast.
O winged fancies, are your wings in vain,
Have you no strength to fly from me again?

All have heard the grim old legend of the ship that ever sailed
Round the Cape, for ever baffled, labouring on though nought availed;
Ghostly bark that ever struggled through the wild encircling deep,
Phantom sails that flashed on sailors startled from their midnight sleep.

Sudden, through the pitchy darkness loomed the great ship — gaunt it gleamed
Guided by the death-pale pilot, when the lurid lightning beamed:
For one moment there it glittered — then it vanished in the gloom,
Working out through nights eternal its eternity of doom

Give me that rose!
It rests, it blows,
Next to your heart, my sweet.
That flower to which such favour has been shown
Amid Song's deathless flowers shall win a throne
From which to watch the baffled years retreat;
Give me that rose!

Give me that rose:
Our moment goes;