Meek , pastoral, quiet souls, whoe'er ye be,
Who love to ply in peace your daily task,
Nor of your gracious God find aught to ask,
But what may help you in Eternity.
Kind spirits, sooth'd and cheer'd by all you meet,
Soothing and cheering all yourselves no less,
Because in all ye see ye own and bless
A God who loves you, and accepts your love:
Would ye find out a fitting tomb? These firs,
Their sea-like dirge soft whispering day and night,
Hither your weary wandering steps invite.
These yew-trees' massive shade, that hardly stirs

1.

My gen'rous heart disdains
The slave of Love to be,
I scorn his servile chains
And boast my liberty.
This whining
And pining
And wasting with care
Are not to my taste, be she ever so fair.

2.

Shall a girl's capricious frown
Sink my noble spirits down?
Shall a face of white and red

In token of the love you gave,
The faith, the trust, reposed in me,
When our young hearts were gay and free,
I plant this flower upon thy grave!

The world is far too poor to give
A value like it took away!
I nevermore a joyous day,
Since you are gone, shall know or live.

In token of the love you gave,
The faith, the trust, reposed in me,
When our young hearts were gay and free,
I plant this flower upon thy grave!

The world is far too poor to give
A value like it took away!
I nevermore a joyous day,

From me, my Dear, O seek not to receive
What e'en deep-read Experience cannot give.
We may, indeed, from the Physician's skill
Some Med'cine find to cure the body's ill.
But who e'er found the physic for the soul,
Or made th' affections bend to his controul?
When thro' the blaze of passion objects show
How dark 's the shade! how bright the colours glow!
All the rous'd soul with transport's overcome,
And the mind's surly Monitor is dumb.

In vain the sages turn their volumes o'er,
And on the musty page incessant pore,

When life's fitful reign is over,
When its cherished dreams are dead,
When the spirit is a rover,
When the soul from earth has fled

To the realms of endless glory,
Mortals cannot comprehend —
Long the theme of song and story —
Where old joys and new joys blend,

We shall know and love each other,
Know and love each other there,
Where the angels dwell together —
Angels passing bright and fair.

Nothing lives but love's sweet essence,
And the soul's all quenchless light;
All else sinks its form and presence

She was young; old Conroy took her,
Took her for herself alone,
For no wealth had she to offer,
Love for him she had not shown.

But, he said, that did not move him;
He of wealth abundance had;
He was old, and she could make him
Less a recluse, lone and sad!

Age had robbed his breast of passion,
And had drained his eyes of tears;
He would leave his ample fortune
To the wife of his last years.

She was all that painters picture,
All that poets deem divine;
Beautiful and virtuous was she —

True Love is but a humble, low-born thing,
And hath its food served up in earthen ware;
It is a thing to walk with, hand in hand,
Through the everydayness of this work-day world,
Baring its tender feet to every flint,
Yet letting not one heart-beat go astray
From Beauty's law of plainness and content;
A simple, fireside thing, whose quiet smile
Can warm earth's poorest hovel to a home;
Which, when our autumn cometh, as it must,
And life in the chill wind shivers bare and leafless,
Shall still be blest with Indian-summer youth

I've neither Reserve or aversion to Man,
(I assure you Sophronia in jingle)
But to keep my dear Liberty, long as I can,
Is the Reason I chuse to live single,
My Sense, or the Want of it—free you may jest
And censure, dispise, or impeach,
But the Happiness center'd within my own Breast,
Is luckily out of your reach.
The Men, (as a Friend) I prefer, I esteem,
And love them as well as I ought
But to fix all my Happiness, solely in Him
Was never my Wish or my Thought,
The cowardly Nymph, you so often reprove,

Of Love and Time say what would Fanny know?
That Time is precious, and that Love is sweet?
That both, the choicest blessings lent below,
With gay Sixteen in envied union meet?

Time without Love is tasteless, dull, and cold,
Love out of Time will fond and doting prove;
To bright sixteen are all their treasures told,
Love suits the Time, and Time then favours Love.

No longer then of matron brows inquire
For sprightly Love, or swiftly-wasting Time;
Look but at home, you have what you require, —
With gay sixteen they both are in their prime.

E ROS ! wherefore do I see thee, with the glass in either hand?
Fickle God! with double measure wouldst thou count the shifting sand?
‘ This one flows for parted lovers—slowly drops each tiny bead—
That is for the days of dalliance, and it melts with golden speed.’

E ROS ! wherefore do I see thee, with the glass in either hand?
Fickle God! with double measure wouldst thou count the shifting sand?
‘ This one flows for parted lovers—slowly drops each tiny bead—
That is for the days of dalliance, and it melts with golden speed.’