Sweet, sweet is the greeting of eyes,
And sweet is the voice in its greeting,
When adieus have grown old and goodbyes
Fade away where old Time is retreating.
Warm the nerve of a welcoming hand,
And earnest a kiss on the brow,
When we meet over sea and o'er land
Where furrows are new to the plough.

As late in wreaths gay flowers I bound,
Beneath some roses Love I found,
And by his little frolic pinion
As quick as thought I seiz'd the minion,
Then in my Cup the prisoner threw,
And drank him in its sparkling dew:
And sure I feel my angry Guest
Fluttering his Wings within my breast!

Now to her lap the incestuous earth
The son she bore has ta'en.
And other sons she brings to birth
But not my friend again.

Here are the skies, the planets seven,
And all the starry train:
Content you with the mimic heaven,
And on the earth remain.

[To Thomas Moore, August 2, 1821. " Ecco a translation literal of a French epigram."]
Æ GLE , beauty and poet, has two little crimes;
She makes her own face, and does not make her rhymes.

Behold the blessings of a lucky lot!
My play is damn'd , and Lady Noel not .
May 25, 1821.

Here is one I wrote for the endorsement of " the Deed of Separation" in 1816; but the lawyers objected to it, as superfluous. It was written as we were getting up the signing and sealing. — has the original.

A YEAR ago you swore, fond she!
" To love, to honour," and so forth:
Such was the vow you pledged to me,
And here's exactly what 't is worth.

Albert!
Hey, Albert!
Don't you play in dat road.
You see dem trucks
A-goin' by.
One run ovah you
An' you die.
Albert, don't you play in dat road.

His father's sense, his mother's grace,
In him, I hope, will always fit so;
With — still to keep him in good case —
The health and appetite of Rizzo.
February 20, 1818.

[To John Murray, July 15, 1817. " Have you no new Babe of Literature sprung up to replace the dead, the distant, the tired, and the retired? no prose, no verse, no nothing? "]

N O infant Sotheby, whose dauntless head
Translates, misunderstood, a deal of German;
No city Wordsworth, more admired than read,
No drunken Coleridge with a new Lay Sermon .