WRITTEN FOR MUSIC AT THE REQUEST OF A. WOOD, ESQ .

1.

Beautiful River! goldenly shining
Where with the cistus woodbines are twining;
(Birklands around thee, mountains above thee,)
Rivilin wildest! do I not love thee?

2.

Why do I love thee, Heart-breaking River?
Love thee, and leave thee? Leave thee for ever?
Never to see thee, where the storms greet thee!
Never to hear thee, rushing to meet me!

3.

Never to hail thee, joyfully chiming
Beauty in music, Sister of Wiming!

My Life, my Love, my Joy,
Who can enough admire
The Sweetning Influence
Of Shiloh 's Stream, from whence
Vertue abounds unto thy Plants, whereby
The Lilly sprouts, free from the Choaking Bryar;
Thy Trees do likewise bring forth Fruit, & flourish,
To th'Praise of thee, who dost both Prune and Cherish.

The King of Kings, the Great Eternal One,
Sent from his Bosom his Beloved Son,
Lost Man to seek, and to Restore ag'in,
From the most vile Captivity of Sin;
Who for our sakes his Father's Throne forsook,
And, as a Servant, freely on him took
The Form of Man, and among Mortals came;
Yea, meekly bore the Cross, despis'd the Shame;
Walking on Earth amongst his Chosen Ones,
The Isra'lites , beloved Jacob 's Sons.
But they, Rebelling in disdainful Pride,
Their King, their Saviour, disown'd, deny'd;
Because he did not, to the Sensual Eye,

1.

From age to age, the bad grew worse,
And still retorted curse for curse,
Though seas, and skies, and light, and air,
Sang, thus, in concert, every where:
Sow not weeds, and say, " Here flowers will bloom! "
Home to roost all curses come.

2.

On willful woes the sun arose,
The sun went down on willful woes,

Love is the ocean, when it swells
And flows upon the land,
Caressing with its waves and shells
The dull forsaken strand.

Love is the carol of the bird,
The light of summer's sun,
The calm of twilight softly stirred
By symphonies of home.

Love is the sweetest scent of flower,
The ripest taste of fruit,
The soft-descending vernal shower,
That laves the tender shoot.

Love is the brightly glistening tear
Of heart that, joyous, weeps;
An angel-form, that hovers near
Where childhood dreams and sleeps.

When, Dearest, I but think on thee,
Methinks all things that lovely be
Are present, and my soul delighted:
For beauties that from worth arise,
Are like the grace of Deities,
Still present with us, though unsighted.

Thus while I sit and sigh the day,
With all his spreading lights away,
Till nights black wings do overtake me:
Thinking on thee, thy beauties then,
As sudden lights do sleeping men,
So they by their bright rayes awake me.

Thus absence dyes, and dying proves
No absence can consist with Loves,

Oh , when the day of passion's fled,
And softly by life's gliding river
We gather flowers to grace our dead,
From all but mem'ry gone for ever,
The fairest wreaths I'll daily twine
Of every tender leaf and blossom
To lay upon the hidden shrine,
Still sacred to thee in my bosom.

Though life's bright noon hath passed away,
With all its tales of love unspoken,
My beauteous rosebud, 'neath its ray,
Untimely fallen, crushed, and broken,
I'll keep its seared and withered leaves,
And find in them as pure a pleasure

BY P OSEIDON

I LOVED Medusa when she was a child,
Her rich brown tresses heaped in crispy curl
Where now those locks with reptile passion whirl,
By hate into dishevelled serpents coiled.
I loved Medusa when her eyes were mild,
Whose glances, narrowed now, perdition hurl,
As her self-tangled hairs their mass unfurl,
Bristling the way she turns with hissings wild.

Shall I love again, and try
If I still must love to lose,
And make weak mortality
Give new birth unto my woes?
No, let me ever live from Love's enclosing,
Rather than love to live in fear of losing.

One whom hasty Nature gives
To the world without his sight,
Not so discontented lives,
As a man depriv'd of light:
'Tis knowledge that gives vigour to our woe,
And not the want, but loss that pains us so.

With the Arabian bird then be
Both the lover and belov'd;
Be thy lines thy progeny
By some gracious fair approv'd;

I.

M E the loveliest truest Swain,
Often woo's, but woo's in vain;
Tender, soft, beseeching Eyes,
Pleading Tears, and melting Sighs:
Such soft Pains as Lovers feel,
Such his dying Looks reveal.

II.

Yet by Pride, by Shame with-held,
Every yielding Thought's repell'd:
Scarce the Sigh that heaves my Breast,
Scarce the falling Tear's represt:
Yet may artful Tongue denies
My Love, and contradicts my Eyes.

III.

If then, charming Youth, you'd know
All my Love, and all my Woe;