Hence far from me, ye senseless joys
That fade before ye reach the heart,....
The crowded dome's distracted noise,
Where all is pomp and useless art!

Give me my home, to quiet dear,
Where hours untold and peaceful move;
So fate ordain I sometimes there
May hear the voice of him I love.

I hate e'en music's pleasing power
When giddy crowds my tones attend,
But love to sing at evening's hour
To sooth the sorrows of a friend.

I love to breathe the plaintive lays
That Henry's heart and taste approve,

THE SONG .

The Eastern portal glows:
The golden glittering doors
Melt now before the glorious sun, which pours
 A sanguine sea of light, and warmth, and mirth,
Till Heaven's great cup o'erflows
 And morning's red wine floods the rounded earth.

 Awake, O ye that sleep!
  Awake! Awake!!!
 But not to weep—
Tears must not flow to-day;
Let sorrow bide, fast-locked and hid away
  In some vast deep,
For Jesus' sake
  We pray
  Amen.

Soft is the sky, and the joy of birds
Breaks from the copse on the budding brae,
And the air hath the dream of the peaceful herds
That graze in the fields to-day.
And the brook hath a turn in its wavering strain
That steals to my heart like a passionate thought,
The phantoms of evil assail me in vain
And I set the world's wisdom at naught.

For my Love goeth forth and her robes are white,
White like the clouds at the break of the dawn,
Fair — fair — and a madness doth burn in my sight,
Lest the vision should be withdrawn:

A SONG .

(Dedicated to a Beautiful Lady.)

A RED rose grew by the rivulet's side,
Softly the breezes blow —
She looked on her face in the glimmering tide,
Softly the breezes blow —
And she glowed with a blush that she could not hide,
Softly the breezes blow.

Oh, sing me a song of love, she said,
Sweetly the waters flow —
Low, full low, did she bend her head,

Once , in the long ago, when Life and Love,
Walked ever hand in hand;
They came to Earth, from some fair realm above,
And wandered through the land.

Much did they find whereon their art to try,
For then the world was new;
They shook the sunbeams from the bended sky,
And steeped the ground with dew.

Upon the fields the emerald turf they spread,
And clad the hills in green;
They laid the meadows on the vales, and led
The glittering streams between.

Life lifted up the flowers throughout the land,

I.

A Book, a Friend, a Song, a Glass,
A chaste, yet laughter-loving Lass,
To Mortals various Joys impart,
Inform the Sense, and warm the Heart.

II.

Thrice happy they, who, careless, laid
Beneath a kind-embow'ring Shade,
With Rosy Wreaths their Temples crown,
In Rosy Wine their Sorrows drown.

III.

Mean while the Muses wake the Lyre,
The Graces modest Mirth inspire,
Good-natur'd Humour, harmless Wit;
Well-temper'd Joys, nor grave, nor light.

IV.

Let Sacred Venus with her Heir ,

In vain, my Damon , you look pale, and write,
Languish all Day, and sigh away the Night;
For while these inconsistent Forms you try,
She thinks you rival her Inconstancy.
Then show the Man again, and re-assume
The sprightly Pride of One-and-twenty's Bloom:
With Courage take her in your longing Arms,
And when she's conquer'd, she must yield her Charms.

L ONG thus in borrow'd Shapes Vertumnus strove
To cheat the fair Pomona into Love;
Yet still he try'd his Fallacies in vain,

WITH AN AIR THAT SHE WAS TO SING .

T O thee my offspring I commend,
The infant's guide, the parent's friend.
Play with my little helpless birth
Before its hands can leave the earth.

To thee alone its trembling fate,
My hopes and fears, I consecrate;
For it was thy enchanting voice
That made the Nymph I love my choice.

One of Nine Sisters took my heart,
And Love to both resign'd his dart.
The couch was bless'd, — Lucina came,
But wish'd for thee to give the name.

Love — on Delia's breast reposing!
Love — whose ray her eyes impart!
Love! — in her — thyself disclosing;
Let me find thee — in her heart!

'T IS true — that me , with roses crown'd,
The tear of Sympathy has found,
And been at once obey'd;
That Pleasure's light, and Beauty's flower,
Have sunk — when pale Misfortune's hour
Implor'd Compassion's aid.

'Tis true — that in the moral grief ,
I never ask'd or wish'd relief,
Nor envy'd playful ease:
But Love the miracle has wrought,
And Love the feeling bosom taught,
How dearly Pain can please!