IN vain we fondly strive to trace
The soul's reflection in the face;
In vain we dwell on lines and crosses,
Crooked mouth, or short proboscis;
Boobies have look'd as wise and bright
As Plato or the Stagirite:

And many a sage and learned skull
Has peep'd through windows dark and dull.
Since then, though art do all it can,
We ne'er can reach the inward man,
Nor (howsoe'er "learn'd Thebans" doubt)
The inward woman, from without,
Methinks, 'twere well if Nature could
(And Nature could, if Nature would)
Some pithy, short descriptions write,
On tablets large, in black and white,
Which she might hang about our throttles,
Like labels upon physic-bottles;
And where all men might read — but stay -
As dialectic sages say,

The argument most apt and ample
For common use is the example.

For instance, then, if Nature's care
Had not portray'd, in lines so fair,
The inward soul of Lucy L-nd-n,
This is the lable she'd have pinn'd on.

LABEL FIRST.

Within this form there lies enshrin'd
The purest, brightest gem of mind.
Though Feeling's hand may sometimes throw
Upon its charms the shade of woe,

TO ROSA.

WRITTEN DURING ILLNESS.

THE wisest soul, by anguish torn,
Will soon unlearn the lore it knew;
And when the shrining casket's worn,
The gem within will tarnish too.

But love's an essence of the soul,
Which sinks not with this chain of clay;
Which throbs beyond the chill control
Of with'ring pain or pale decay.

And surely, when the touch of Death
Dissolves the spirit's earthly ties,
Love still attends th' immortal breath,
And makes it purer for the skies!

Oh Rosa, when, to seek its sphere,
My soul shall leave this orb of men,
That love which form'd its treasure here,
Shall be its best of treasures then!

And as, in fabled dreams of old,
Some air-born genius, child of time,
Presided o'er each star that roll'd,
And track'd it through its path sublime;

So thou, fair planet, not unled,
Shalt through thy mortal orbit stray;
Thy lover's shade, to thee still wed,
Shall linger round thy earthly way.

Let other spirits range the sky,

And play around each starry gem; I'll bask beneath that lucid eye,

Nor envy worlds of suns to them.

And when that heart shall cease to beat,
And when that breath at length is free,
Then, Rosa, soul to soul we'll meet,
And mingle to eternity!

SONG.

THE wreath you wove, the wreath you wove
Is fair- but oh, how fair,

If Pity's hand had stol'n from Love
One leaf to mingle there!

If every rose with gold were tied,
Did gems for dewdrops fall,
One faded leaf where Love had sigh'd
Were sweetly worth them all.

ON THE

DEATH OF A LADY.

SWRET spirit! if thy airy sleep

Nor sees my tears nor hears my sighs, Then will I weep, in anguish weep,

Till the last heart's drop fills mine eyes.

But if thy sainted soul can feel,

And mingles in our misery; Then, then my breaking heart I'll sealThou shalt not hear one sigh from me.

The beam of morn was on the stream, But sullen clouds the day deform: Like thee was that young, orient beam, Like death, alas, that sullen storm!

So link'd thy soul was with the sky; Yet, ah, we held thee all so dear,

We thought thou wert not form'd to die.

INCONSTANCY.

AND do I then wonder that Julia deceives me, When surely there's nothing in nature more common?

She vows to be true, and while vowing she leaves

me

And could I expect any more from a woman?

Oh, woman! your heart is a pitiful treasure;

And Mahomet's doctrine was not too severe, When he held that you were but materials of plea

sure,

And reason and thinking were out of your sphere.

By your heart, when the fond sighing lover can win it,

He thinks that an age of anxiety's paid; But, oh, while he's blest, let him die at the minute

If he live but a day, he'll be surely betray'd.

THE NATAL GENIUS.

A DREAM.

To...

THE MORNING OF HER BIRTHDAY.

IN witching slumbers of the night,
I dreamt I was the airy sprite

That on thy natal moment smil'd;
And thought I wafted on my wing
Those flow'rs which in Elysium spring,

To crown my lovely mortal child.

With olive-branch I bound thy head,
Heart's-ease along thy path I shed,

Which was to bloom through all thy years; Nor yet did I forget to bind

Love's roses, with his myrtle twin'd,

And dew'd by sympathetic tears.

Such was the wild but precious boon
Which Fancy, at her magic noon,

Bade me to Nona's image pay;
And were it thus my fate to be
Thy little guardian deity,

How blest around thy steps I'd play!