Say, why your kisses thus bestow,
On one who can't their value know?
Ah! lavish not that bliss in vain,
Which I would gladly die to gain.

Ye, beauty's pow'r who feel, excuse
The am'rous sallies of the muse:
Permit the bard to soothe his pain,
In mournful numbers to complain,
Or feast his fancy with the charms
Deny'd by fortune to his arms.
At beauty's mark in vain may wit
Aspire, for only wealth can hit,
And, deaf to merit's slow approaches
'Tis won by blockheads in their coaches.

RITTEN ON TWO YOUNG LADIES, ONE OF A FAIR, THE OTHER OF A BROWN COMPLEXION, WHO DESIRED THE AUTHOR TO MAKE SOME VERSES ON THEM .

Since, Ladies, you a song desire,
Pray how can I refuse!
Then, while your charms my theme inspire,
I'll straight invoke the muse.

But how within one song shall I
Your sep'rate graces praise,
While both of you delight my eye,
And both in diff'rent ways.

While, Miss, in you, the lillies find

To F. B.

Is all the world against thee? Then am I
Quite for thee, though I bitterly condemn
The sin that justifies their spite to them,
And drains the wells of thy fair spirit dry.
It is an English poet's part to die
For English womanhood at utter need:
My spirit, all on fire to intercede
For thy bruised spirit, hovers gently nigh.

What is it worth, the gift of praise men bring

After Metaphysic's dreary song
Back to thee I turn,
Finding much of love's pure lore I long
Yet to learn.

After all the feasts of learning spread
Grand before my gaze,
Love's sweet mandate thrills my heart instead
At a glance of May's.

After all the lengthy windy words
Spun from mankind's tongue,
Strange relief to hear a girl's, or bird's,
Said or sung.

After wandering through the weary days,
Sad, alone,
Glad delight to feel one hour of May's

And must I, must I ever part
From her I held so dear?
And separate my constant heart
From all it valu'd here?

As soon ye might of life deprive,
As from my fair remove;
Ah! rather bid me cease to live,
Than bid me cease to love.

Thine, Delia, be a happier lot,
Though mine be care and pain!
How willingly I'd be forgot
For some more worthy swain.

Ne'er may a hapless lover's sighs
Be heard to grate thy ear,
And ne'er the lustre of thy eyes
Be fully'd with a tear!

For me, alas! my sole delight

O Dante, breathe upon us, that the race
Be perfect and eternal in pure love!
And, Beatrice, thy golden wings above
Our womanhood be calm and quick to place;
Ah! let thy lips and the unforgotten face
Lean over us and bring us into peace.
Have we not loved, and is there no release?
And didst thou leave thy Dante without grace,
To linger, and to struggle, and to sigh?

O Dante, make us worthy, make us strong:
And, Beatrice, be pitiful, be nigh;
And, Dante, burn our passion into song,
And grant that it be sweet, but not too long,

I thought to find in beauty's charms
The solace of my care,
And hop'd that fortune to my arms
At least would Delia spare.

But now the beauties of the fair
That oft inspir'd my song,
And joys I once had hop'd to share,
No more to me belong.

The muse's smiles in vain I prove,
Inspirers of my strain,
They only taught me how to love,
And teach me to complain.

Another shall behold the fair,
Whom I no more must see;
Another shall her favour share
Deny'd, alas! to me.

Over London, wintry London, fell the darkness and the gloom:
In my heart was leaden silence, even the silence of the tomb.
Like a monster on the city rushed the grim night, sablemailed;
Lamps that tossed their spears against it, seemed but sparks that flashed and failed.

Was it Christmas, — merry — Christmas? Were there sounds of mirth and song?
Or would only ghostly faces round about my footpath throng?
Is it Christmas to earth's mourners? Are the holly-berries red
When the hands that used to love them are the cold hands of the dead?

I caught a passing glimpse above my head
Of Summer's coronet, pale and tender blue, —
And memory ran my spirit thro' and thro',
Recalling with his piercing lance-point red
Summers and flowery seasons mute and dead,
Long since despatched and hidden from mortal view:
Recalling the sweet sense of evening dew,
And sweeter sense of Love's low whispers said.

It all has vanished, and I add my wailing
To myriads seated by the hollow tomb,
Leaning cold foreheads on its dismal railing:
I mourn the utter overthrow of bloom,