S WEET bloom, that 's ever in its prime,
Superior to the waste of Time,
Your privilege we all approve —
But wish the secret known to Love .

With insolent conceit of taste,
I swore on Briton Ferry's hill,
" No other charms my love should waste,
Enchantment there its cup should fill. "

But soon the Nymphs of Dinevawr
Around me danc'd with Beauty's chain,
Commenc'd the Rival's jealous war,
And bound me to their smiling reign.

Then Hafod's Muse entranc'd my love,
Secluded in her arms I lay,
Explor'd with her the pathless grove,

I AM no rustic beauty's friend,
The barn and stack my taste offend.
I own 'tis classical to keep
With shepherd's crook the lambs and sheep,
Or sing of Love to shepherdesses
With nut-brown hands and flowing tresses.
But upon fancy none agree,
And this employment suits not me.
Forgive it, ye poetic themes,
I have no taste for vocal streams,
That ring in one eternal chime
Monotony's dull note of Time;
The cawing rook delights not me,
The lowing herd, or humming bee:
But I do covet rustic wealth,

COULD love impart,
By nicest art,
To speechless rocks a tongue, —
Their theme would be,
Beloved, of thee, —
Thy beauty, all their song.

And, clerklike, then,
With sweet amen,
Would echo from each hollow
Reply all day;
While gentle fay,
With merry whoop, would follow.

Had roses sense,
On no pretence
Would they their buds unroll;
For, could they speak,
'Twas from thy cheek
Their daintiest blush they stole.

HERE Emma , though her discipline was hard,
Was made immortal by a deathless Bard:
For, though her Love nor age nor scene can boast,
The Nine adopt, and personate the Ghost.

A Girl , on amorous follies bent,
From Oxford a Knight-errant went;
A Connoisseur in love-devices,
Though in her teens; — they call'd her Isis .
A Shepherd-youth, in mean attire,
Won the fair prize; and Fame's no liar.
Discretion frown'd; — but Nature smil'd,
And Miss grew thoroughly with child; —
The little Rake's adopted name
(For he had none at first) was Thame .
She took him with her on the journey,
Without a Parson or Attorney;

FIRST LOVER

Love that is spoken often dies,
Quick as the light in evening skies,
Or as a song upon the ear,
And leaves no answering spirit near:
Wilt thou be true? Shall I ne'er rue
My plighted faith? Wilt thou be true?

ECHO

Wilt thou be true?

SECOND LOVER

That doubt, O maiden, do not name!
Changeless as yon eternal flame
My spirit evermore shall be
In its full worshipping of thee.

I AM so desolate, —
Genius sighs —
Come, Love, and be my mate,
Give me thine eyes.

I am aweary,
Love, give me rest;
Leave me not dreary,
Give me thy breast.

The lark looks to heaven,
The flower to the sun;
But my heart is sore riven
For thy beauty, sweet one.

Give me thy presence,
My life to enfold;
Then care and sorrow hence,
That life shalt thou hold.

My life is but a study how to die.
Since there seems nought of worth in life on earth,
I'll school my spirit for eternity,
And study how from death to gain new birth.
I am in love with that which leads from hence
Because it points to all our minds desire,
When, rapt in contemplation, mortal sense,
And sin and error like a dream expire.
O heaven! the fountain-head of every grace,
Where wisdom, justice, beauty, power, and love
Have made their everlasting resting-place,
Teach now my better part to dwell above

The bloom hath fled thy cheek, Mary,
As spring's rath blossoms die,
And sadness hath o'ershadowed quite
Thy once bright eye;
But, look on me, the prints of grief
Still deeper lie.
Farewell!

Thy lips are pale and mute, Mary,
Thy step is sad and slow,
The morn of gladness hath gone by
Thou erst didst know;
I, too, am changed like thee, and weep
For very woe.
Farewell!

It seems as 'twere but yesterday
We were the happiest twain,
When murmured sighs and joyous tears,
Dropping like rain,