I.

Snowy gem of the earth, whose fair modest head,
 Droops beneath the chill sigh of hoar winter's cold breath;
Snowy gem of the earth, on thy pure sunless bed,
 I carelessly, nearly, had crush'd thee to death.

II.

And alas! I have torn thee, thou sweet snowy gem,
 From the young kindred tendrils thou lov'st to entwine
And have torn thee, alas! from thy fair parent stem,
 To my still glowing bosom thy charms to consign.

III.

But if from thy pure snowy bed I have snatch'd thee,

I.

The air is fill'd with shouts, and trumpets' sounding;
A host are at thy gates, Jerusalem.
Now is their van the Mount of Olives rounding;
Above them Judah's lion-banners gleam,
Twined with the palm and olives' peaceful stem.
Now swell the nearer sounds of voice and string,
As down the hill-side pours the living stream;
And to the cloudless heaven Hosannas ring —
" The Son of David comes! — the Conqueror — the King! "

II.

The cuirass'd Roman heard; and grasp'd his shield,
And rushed in fiery haste to gate and tower;

The sparkes of loue within my brest, doe daylie so increase,
That euery vain on fyre is set, which none but thou mayst cease.
So that in thee consists my woe, in thee likewise my wealth,
In thee with speede to hast my death, in thee to giue me health,
O pittie then his restlesse state, that yeeldes him to thy will,
Sithe loe in thee it wholy lyes, my life to saue or spill.
That neyther doe I glose or faine, I I OVE to witnesse call,
Who knows the heat of fired harts, when they to loue are thrall.
And shall I thus a wofull Wight, in rigor still remayne?

Nymph of the mountains! blooming maid,
Whose blush no midnight revels fade,
With sandal'd leg and bosom bare,
Dew pearls glitt'ring on thy hair!
Thy brow with Alpine myrtle crown'd,
Thy waist with laurel cestus bound;
Thy limbs elastic, scarce conceal'd,
Or with thy robe transparent veil'd,
And like the rose 'midst new-fall'n snow,
Thro' thy aerial drap'ry glow!
Thy lips with honey wild imbued,
Thine eye with tear of rapture dew'd,
Thy cheeks embrown'd, yet soft disclose
The blushes of the op'ning rose!

AN IMITATION OF A GREEK EPIGRAM IN HOMER

When PhÅ?bus and the Nine harmonious maids
Of old assembled in the Thespian shades,
— What theme, — they cry'd, — what high immortal air,
— Besits these harps to sound, and thee to hear? —
Reply'd the god, — Your loftiest notes employ
— To sing young Peleus and the fall of Troy. —
The wondrous song with rapture they rehearse,
Then ask who wrought that miracle of verse.
He answer'd with a srown; — I now reveal
— A truth that Envy bids me not conceal.

Maye name of seruaunt, to familier seeme,
For such whose seruice neuer swarude away?
Can Noble mindes so base of those esteeme,
That freely yeelde for them to liue or dye?
No, no, some further fetche conceyued is,
Which hath withdrawne from me that wonted name:
How so it be, if I be more amisse,
Then sounde good will hath once desarued blame.
The wrekfull Gods powre downe vpon my hed,
Such sharpe reuenge as neuer man did feele:
And let my Ghost in L YMBO lowe be led,
To T ANTALS thyrst, or prowde I XIONS wheele.

I.

I had a vision: evening sat in gold
Upon the bosom of a boundless plain.
Cover'd with beauty; — garden, field, and fold,
Studding the billowy sweep of ripening grain,
Like islands in the purple summer main.
And temples of pure marble met the sun,
That tinged their white shafts with a golden stain;
And sounds of rustic joy, and labour done,

To my Sister Lady Clerth We were then at school together.

I.

Have I from childhood then, been writing,
And erst I well could write, inditing,
In scribling ever still delighting;
since first the muse
Did kindly string my infant lyre,
And o'er my mind poetic fire
as kind infuse;

II.

Since first young fancy's meteor beam,
Did on my dawning genius gleam,
And wrapt me in poetic dream;
as oft I strove
To sing, a sigh, a smile, a tear,
Or haply, an idea dear
of infant love!

III.

WHO DIED O CTOBER 13, 1794

Come, bright ingenuous Truth, your loss deplore,
Come Friendship weep, for B EVAN is no more!
Come injur'd Innocence, that sought redress,
And heav'n-born Charity, that loves to bless,
And Gratitude — for ev'ry heart he knew,
His gen'rous cares might render grateful toe!
Come round his grave — lament the awful doom,
Which laid your gentle patron in the tomb! —
Oh hapless By fleet! never more your bow'rs,
Shall sooth the sweet retirement of his hours!

Whilst Ovid here reveals the various arts
Both how to polish and direct their darts,
Let meaner beauties by his rules improve,
And read these lines to gain success in love:
But Heav'n alone, that multiplies our race,
Has pow'r t' increase the conquests of your face.
The Spring, before he paints the rising flow'rs,
Receives mild beams and soft descending shew'rs;
But love blooms ever fresh beneath your charms,
Tho' neither pity weeps nor kindness warms.
The chiefs who doubt success assert their claim
By stratagems, and poorly steal a name: