The gentle heart, the truthful love,
Have flemed this earth and fled to Heaven—
The noblest spirits earliest prove
Not Here below, but There above,
Is Hope no shadow—Bliss no sweven!

There was a time, old Poets say,
When the crazed world was in its nonage,
That they who loved were loved alwaye,
With faith transparent as the day,
But this, meseems, was fiction's coinage.

We cannot mate here as we ought,
With laws opposed to simple feeling;
Professions are, like lute string, bought,
And worldly ties soon breed distraught,

Vv H ile Eagle-like vpon the lofty wings
Of thy aspiring Muse thou flies on hie,
Making th' immortall Sprites in loue with thee,
And of those Ditties thou so sweetly sings,
Where quaffing boules of their Ambrosian springs,
And sweetest Nectar, thou diuinely stayes:
Low by the earth (poore I) sings homely layes,
Till like desire of fame me vpward brings,
Then borrowing, from thy rich Muse, some plumes,
Icarian -like beyond my skill I soare,
While comming where thy songs are heard before,
My lines are mockt, that thine to match presumes:

Our early love was only dream!
Still a dream too fair for earth,
Hallowed in a faint far gleam,
Where the fairest flowers have birth,
Let it rest! no stain e'er trouble
Magic murmur, limpid bubble!

There two spirits in the calm
Of moonlight memory may go,
Finding pure refreshing balm,
When life traileth wounded, slow
Along dim ways of common dust,
As dull lives of mortals must.

Early love, fair fount of waters,
Ever by enchantment flowing,
Where two snakes, her innocent daughters,

With faltering step would I depart,
From home and friend that claimed my heart —
And the big tear would dim mine eye,
Fixed on the scenes of early years,
(Each spot some pleasure past endears)
And I would mingle with a sigh
The accents of the farewell lay —
But for my love that's far way!

Friends and dear native land, adieu!
In hope we part — no tears bedew
My cheek — no dark regrets alloy
The buoyant feelings of the hour
That leads me to my ladye's bower —
My breast throbs with a wondrous joy,

Oft have I sighed for pleasure past,
Oft wept for secret smarting —
But far the heaviest drop of all
That ever on my cheek did fall
The tear was at our parting.

Why did our bosoms ever beat
Harmonious with each other,
If truest sympathies of soul
Might broken be, perhaps the whole
Concentred in another?

My fear it was when other scenes,
With other tongues and faces,
Should greet thee, thou would'st haply be

'Tis 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!

I LOOK on thee once more,—
I gaze on thee and sigh,
To think how soon some hearts run o'er
With love, and then run dry.

I need not marvel long
That love in thee expires,
For shallowest streams have loudest song,
Most smoke the weakest fires.

I deemed thee once sincere,—
Once thought thy breast must be
A fountain gushing through the year
With living love for me!

For so it was with mine,
The well-springs of my soul
Were opened up, and streamed to thine,
As their appointed goal.

A SERENADE .

Hark ! sweet Isabelle, hark to my lute,
As softly it plaineth o'er
The story of one to whose lowly suit
Thy heart shall beat no more!
List to its tender plaints, my love,
Sad as the accents of saints, my love
Who mortal sin deplore!

Awake from your slumber, Isabelle, wake,
'Tis sorrow that tunes these strings;
A last farewell would the minstrel take

O Love , how full of comfort is thy soul!
How full of hope the prospect of thine eye!
Thy prophecy doth time, and chance control:
Beneath thy shadow I securely lie
Safe anchored to an everlasting peace,
O'er which our changeful fortunes have no power.
Mutation and decay their havoc cease
To dream away the uneventful hour,
Beauty wears hues it never wore before,
Young joy, no longer spurns this dusty earth,
And rapture on the heart's deserted shore
Rolls its succeeding waves. — There is a dearth
In Sorrow's shrunken realm of sighs and tears,

Sweet Innocent! what Angel's hand shall guide
Those tempting beauties, that will soon inflame
The amorous Libertine to vice and shame,
Polluting what he loves — the maiden's pride —
With arts, or gifts, that subtle counsels hide,
And rebel passions, that ascendant claim;
Which nothing but the sad reverse can tame
Of infamy — to penitence allied? —
Beware of Man! till Honour gives the word
Of ripe assent, improv'd by Love's delay; —
The word, that choice and sympathy have bound
With sacred impulse, and with hearts preferr'd.