What man dare say that he is quite immune
From charms and spells that ev'ry girl possesses?
A budding love is like the warmth of June,
That lulls and dulls his senses ere he guesses;
Yet who should seek to fly from such attack?
Though stricken sore, I hold my charmer blameless;
My truant heart I would not summon back,
I leave it in the care of one who's nameless.

He jests at scars who never felt the blow
That comes when love first smites and sends him reeling;
The stinging arrow speeds and brings him low,

Tho ' sacred the tie that our country entwineth,
And dear to the heart her remembrance remains,
Yet dark are the ties where no liberty shineth,
And sad the remembrance that slavery stains.
O thou who wert born in the cot of the peasant,
But diest in languor in luxury's dome,
Our vision when absent—our glory, when present—
Where thou art, O Liberty! there is my home.

Farewell to the land where in childhood I 've wandered!
In vain is she mighty, in vain is she brave!
Unblest is the blood that for tyrants is squandered,

When life looks lone and dreary,
What light can dispel the gloom?
When Time's swift wing grows weary,
What charm can refresh his plume?
'T is woman whose sweetness beameth
O'er all that we feel or see;
And if man of heaven e'er dreameth,
'T is when he thinks purely of thee,
O woman!

Let conquerors fight for glory,
Too dearly the meed they gain;
Let patriots live in story—
Too often they die in vain;
Give kingdoms to those who choose 'em,
This world can offer to me
No throne like Beauty's bosom,
No freedom like serving thee,

When Charles was deceived by the maid he loved,
We saw no cloud his brow o'ercasting,
But proudly he smiled as if gay and unmoved,
Tho' the wound in his heart was deep and lasting.
And oft at night when the tempest rolled
He sung as he paced the dark deck over—
“Blow, wind, blow! thou art not so cold
As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover.”

Yet he lived with the happy and seemed to be gay,
Tho' the wound but sunk more deep for concealing;
And Fortune threw many a thorn in his way,
Which, true to one anguish, he trod without feeling!

Dear aunt, in the olden time of love,
When women like slaves were spurned,
A maid gave her heart, as she would her glove,
To be teased by a fop, and returned!
But women grow wiser as men improve,
And, tho' beaux, like monkeys, amuse us,
Oh! think not we 'd give such a delicate gem
As the heart to be played with or sullied by them;
No, dearest aunt, excuse us.

We may know by the head on Cupid's seal
What impression the heart will take;
If shallow the head, oh! soon we feel
What a poor impression 't will make!

Spirit of Joy, thy altar lies
In youthful hearts that hope like mine;
And 't is the light of laughing eyes
That leads us to thy fairy shrine.
There if we find the sigh, the tear,
They are not those to sorrow known;
But breathe so soft, and drop so clear,
That bliss may claim them for her own.
Then give me, give me, while I weep,
The sanguine hope that brightens woe,
And teaches even our tears to keep
The tinge of pleasure as they flow.

The child who sees the dew of night
Upon the spangled hedge at morn,

Young Love lived once in a humble shed,
Where roses breathing
And woodbines wreathing
Around the lattice their tendrils spread,
As wild and sweet as the life he led.
His garden flourisht,
For young Hope nourisht.
The infant buds with beams and showers;
But lips, tho' blooming, must still be fed,
And not even Love can live on flowers.

Alas! that Poverty's evil eye
Should e'er come hither,
Such sweets to wither!
The flowers laid down their heads to die,
And Hope fell sick as the witch drew nigh.
She came one morning,

'T is sweet to behold when the billows are sleeping,
Some gay-colored bark moving gracefully by;
No damp on her deck but the eventide's weeping,
No breath in her sails but the summer wind's sigh.

Yet who would not turn with a fonder emotion,
To gaze on the life-boat, tho' rugged and worn,
Which often hath wafted o'er hills of the ocean
The lost light of hope to the seaman forlorn!

Oh! grant that of those who in life's sunny slumber
Around us like summer-barks idly have played,
When storms are abroad we may find in the number

While discovery is the fact,
Sea-skill and the way to find,
Flee, land, more inland,
Even to the devil's bosom, loneliness.

Which cannot comfort,
But which cannot give a foreign name
Or make you other than desolate.

Yet be not undiscoverable,
Except where land seen is mere sailor's fancy,
Not native strangeness.

For if you be a true unknown,
Discovery must fade into you
And the foreign name translate,

And the discoverer succeed the devil,
Even unto loneliness—
To comfort by it,
By it call you known.

Prigg, when he comes to houses, oft doth use
(Rather then fail) to steal from thence old shoes:
Sound or unsound, be they rent or whole,
Prigg bears away the body and the sole.