Her lip!-oh, call me not false-hearted,
When such a lip I fondly press'd;

'Twas Love some melting cherry parted,
Gave thee one half and her the rest!

And when, with all thy murmuring tone, They sued, half-open, to be kiss'd,

I could as soon resist thine own,

And them, Heaven knows! I ne'er resist.

Then, scorn me not, though false I be,
'Twas love that waked the dear excess ;
My heart had been more true to thee,
Had mine eye prized thy beauty less!

WHEN I loved

ΤΟ

you, I can't but allow

I had many an exquisite minute;
But the scorn that I feel for you now
Hath even more luxury in it!

Thus, whether we're on or we're off,
Some witchery seems to await you;
To love you is pleasant enough,

And, oh! 'tis delicious to hate you!

FROM THE GREEK OF MELEAGER.*

FILL high the cup with liquid flame,
And speak my HELIODORA's name!

Repeat its magic o'er and o'er,

And let the sound my lips adore,
Sweeten the breeze, and mingling swim
On every bowl's voluptuous brim!

Give me the wreath that withers there,
It was but last delicious night

It hung upon her wavy hair,

And caught her eyes' reflected light!
Oh! haste, and twine it round my brow;
It breathes of HELIODORA now!

The loving rose-bud drops a tear,
To see the nymph no longer here,

No longer, where she used to lie,

Close to my heart's devoted sigh!

*

Εγχει, και παλιν ειπε, παλιν, παλιν, Ηλιοδώρας
Είπε, συν ακρητω το γλυκυ μιση ονομα.
Και μοι τον βρεχθεντα μυροις και χθιζον εοντα,
Μναμοσυνον κείνας, αμφιτίθει σεφανον
Δακρύει Φιλέςατον ιδε ροδον, ένεκα κειναν
Αλλοθι κε κολποις ἡμετέροις εσορά.

BRUNCK, Analect, tom. i.

p. 28.

LINES,

WRITTEN IN A STORM AT SEA.

THAT Sky of clouds is not the sky
To light a lover to the pillow
Of her he loves-

The swell of yonder foaming billow
Resembles not the happy sigh

That rapture moves.

Yet do I feel more tranquil now
Amid the gloomy wilds of ocean,

In this dark hour,

Than when, in transport's young emotion,
I've stolen, beneath the evening star,
To Julia's bower.

Oh! there's a holy calm profound
In awe like this, that ne'er was given
To rapture's thrill;

'Tis as a solemn voice from Heaven,

And the soul, listening to the sound,

Lies mute and still!

4.

'Tis true, it talks of danger nigh,
Of slumbering with the dead to-morrow
In the cold deep,

Where pleasure's throb or tears of sorrow
No more shall wake the heart or eye,
But all must sleep!

Well!-there are some, thou stormy bed,
To whom thy sleep would be a treasure ;
Oh! most to him,

Whose lip hath drain'd life's cup of pleasure,
Nor left one honey drop to shed
Round misery's brim.

Yes-he can smile serene at death:

Kind Heaven! do thou but chase the weeping
Of friends who love him ;

Tell them that he lies calmly sleeping,
Where sorrow's sting or envy's breath
No more shall move him.

ODES TO NEA;

WRITTEN AT BERMUDA.

ΝΕΑ ΤΥΡΑΝΝΕΙ.

EURIPID. Medea. v. 967.

NAY, tempt me not to love again,

There was a time when love was sweet;

Dear NEA! had I known thee then,

Our souls had not been slow to meet!

But, oh! this

So

many a time, the rounds of pain,

Not even for thee, thou lovely one!

Would I endure such

pangs again.

If there be climes where never yet
The print of Beauty's foot was set,

Where man may pass his loveless nights
Unfever'd by her false delights-

Thither my wounded soul would fly,

Where rosy cheek or radiant eye

Should bring no more their bliss, their pain,

Or fetter me to earth again!