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Where now are the flowers that embroider'd the vale,

And the hills which yon hamlet enclos'd,
And where are the wild-woods that wav'd in the gale,

On whose tops the dark ravens repos'd ?

For a moment they're hid, but soon shall the veil

Which o'ershadows them vanish away!
With the dawning of morn their return I shall hail,

And their beauty again I'll survey.

But where are the thoughts that once gladden'd my heart,

And the hopes I so fondly have cherish'd ;
And where are the visions which blissful did start?

Alas! they for ever are perish'd.

Yes, for ever !_no more shall Eliza's bright eye,

The sun of my soul, shed its light; Its heaven-born lustre has filed in a sigh,

And left my sad bosom in night.



In imitation of the Italian.

Love under friendship's vesture white,
Laughs, his little limbs concealing,
And oft in sport and oft in spite,
Like Pity meets the dazzled sight,
Smiles through his tears revealing.
But now as Rage the God appears !
He frowns, and tempests shake his frame!
Frowning, or smiling, or in tears,
'Tis Love and Love is still the same.



Mine be a cot beside the hill;
A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook, that turns a mill
With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow oft beneath my thatch,
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivy'd porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew,
And Lucy at her wheel shall sing
In russet gown and apron blue.

The village church among the trees,
Where first our marriage-vows were giv'n,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze,
And point with taper spire to heav'n.



Dear is my little native vale ;
The ring-dove builds and murmurs there;
Close by my cot she tells her tale

To every passing villager.
The squirrel leaps from tree to tree
And shells his nuts at liberty.

In orange groves and myrtle bowers,
That breathe a gale of fragrance round,

I charm the fairy-footed hours,

With my loved lute's, romantic sound,
Or crowns of living laurel weave,
For those that win the race at eve.

The shepherd's horn at break of day
The ballet danc'd in twilight glade
The canzonet and roundelay

Sung in the silent green-wood shade.
These simple joys, that never fail,
Shall bind me to my native vale.



Once more, enchanting girl, adieu !

I must begone while yet I may, Oft shall I weep to think of you!

But here I will not, cannot stay.

The sweet expression of that face,

For ever changing, yet the same,
Ah no, I dare not turn to trace,
It melts my soul, it fires my frame>


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Yet give me, give me, ere I go,

One little lock of these so blest, That lend your cheek a warmer glow,

And on your white neck love to rest.

Say, when to kindle soft delight,

That hand has chanced with mine to meet, How could its thrilling touch excite

A sigh so short, and yet so sweet?

O say—but no, it must not be

Adieu! a long, a long adieu !
Yet still, methinks, you frown on me,

Or never could I fly from you.



Oh! that the chemist's magic art

Could crystallize this secret treasure ! Long should it glitter near my heart,

A secret source of pensive pleasure.

* This beautiful little song, and likewise the four which immcdiately precede it, are taken from the compositions of Samuel Rogers, Esq; Banker, London. Besides these, and several others of a similar nature, he is the

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