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He spake, and ambushed lay, till on my The morning shot her dewy glances keen, When as I 'gan to lift my drowsy head"Now, Bard! I'll work thee woe!" the laughing Elfin said.

Sleep, softly-breathing god! his downy wing Was fluttering now, as quickly to depart; When twanged an arrow from Love's mystic string, With pathless wound it pierced him to the heart. Was there some magic in the Elfin's dart? Or did he strike my couch with wizard lance? For straight so fair a Form did upwards start (No fairer decked the bowers of old romance) That sleep enamoured grew, nor moved from his sweet trance!

My Sara came, with gentlest look divine

Bright shone her eye, yet tender was its beam:
I felt the pressure of her lip to mine!

Whispering we went, and love was all our theme—
Love pure and spotless, as at first, I deem,
He sprang from Heaven! Such joys with sleep did
That I the living image of my dream

['bide, Fondly forgot. Too late I woke, and sighed— "O! how shall I behold my Love at even-tide!" July, 1795.

IMITATED FROM OSSIAN.

HE stream with languid murmur creeps,
In Lumin's flowery vale :
Beneath the dew the lily weeps
Slow-waving to the gale.

"Cease, restless gale!" it seems to say,
"Nor wake me with thy sighing!
The honours of my vernal day

On rapid wing are flying.

"To-morrow shall the traveller come
Who late beheld me blooming:
His searching eye shall vainly roam
The dreary vale of Lumin."

With eager gaze and wetted cheek
My wonted haunts along,

Thus, faithful maiden! thou shalt seek
The youth of simplest song.

But I along the breeze shall roll

The voice of feeble power;

And dwell, the moon-beam of thy soul,
In slumber's nightly hour.

THE COMPLAINT OF NINATHOMA.

OW long will ye round me be swelling,
O ye blue-tumbling waves of the sea?
Not always in caves was my dwelling,

Nor beneath the cold blast of the tree.
Through the high-sounding halls of Cathlóma
In the steps of my beauty I strayed;
The warriors beheld Ninathóma,

And they blessed the white-bosomed maid!

A Ghost! by my cavern it darted!
In moon-beams the Spirit was drest-
For lovely appear the departed

When they visit the dreams of my rest!
But disturbed by the tempest's commotion
Fleet the shadowy forms of delight—
Ah cease, thou shrill blast of the ocean!
To howl through my cavern by night.

MUTUAL PASSION.

ALTERED AND MODERNIZED FROM AN OLD POET.

LOVE, and he loves me again,

Yet dare I not tell who:

For if the nymphs should know my swain,
I fear they'd love him too.

Yet while my joy's unknown,

Its rosy buds are but half-blown :

What no one with me shares, seems scarce my own.

I'll tell, that if they be not glad,

They yet may envy me:

But then if I grow jealous mad,

And of them pitied be,

"Twould vex me worse than scorn!

And yet it cannot be forborn,

Unless my heart would like my thoughts be torn.

He is, if they can find him, fair
And fresh, and fragrant too;
As after rain the summer air,
And looks as lilies do,

That are this morning blown!

Yet, yet I doubt, he is not known, Yet, yet I fear to have him fully shown.

But he hath eyes so large, and bright,
Which none can see, and doubt
That Love might thence his torches light
Though Hate had put them out!
But then to raise my fears,

His voice-what maid soever hears
Will be my rival, though she have but ears.

I'll tell no more! yet I love him,

And he loves me; yet so,

That never one low wish did dim
Our love's pure light, I know—
In each so free from blame,

That both of us would gain new fame,
If love's strong fears would let me tell his name!

IMITATED FROM THE WELSH.

F, while my passion I impart,
You deem my words untrue,
O place your hand upon my heart-
Feel how it throbs for you!

Ah no! reject the thoughtless claim

In pity to your Lover!

That thrilling touch would aid the flame,
It wishes to discover.

THE HOUR WHEN WE SHALL MEET
AGAIN.

COMPOSED DURING ILLNESS AND IN ABSENCE.

IM Hour! that sleep'st on pillowing clouds afar,

O rise, and yoke the turtles to thy car!
Bend o'er the traces, blame each lingering
dove,

And give me to the bosom of my Love!
My gentle Love! caressing and carest,
With heaving heart shall cradle me to rest;
Shed the warm tear-drop from her smiling eyes,
Lull with fond woe, and medicine me with sighs;
While finely-flushing float her kisses meek,
Like melted rubies, o'er my pallid cheek.
Chilled by the night the drooping rose of May
Mourns the long absence of the lovely day:
Young day, returning at her promised hour,
Weeps o'er the sorrows of her favourite flower,-
Weeps the soft dew, the balmy gale she sighs,
And darts a trembling lustre from her eyes.
New life and joy the expanding floweret feels:
His pitying mistress mourns, and mourning heals!

1796.

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