To my most louing and intirely beloued Pupill, Mr Arthur De la-vale, attending the right honourable and most happy Earle of Dunbarre.

Thy name is of the Vale: thy nature, not:
For it is kinde and truly generous:
As are thy worthy brothers (well I wou)
Then is thy nature highly vertuous:
Yet being lowly too as is the Dale,
Thy name thy nature fits, deere De la-Vale.

I'm thinking of you to-night, Willie,
Alone in the silence bright;
While heav'n enswathes in a glittering veil
An unreal world of white.

I'm thinking of you to-night, Willie,
In the deathless afterglow
Of ideal love that was pure and white,
Ah! Willie, you know, you know!

I'm thinking of you to-night, Willie,
While out in the quiet street,
A passionate wail of melody
Flows out from a cornet sweet.

The plaint in the air is sad, Willie,
Ah! Sadder could never be,
" Love not, love not " — Ah God! Willie,

FROM THE FRENCH

From the same parent, issuing at a birth,
Two different beings tread this changeful earth;
The one call'd Happiness, to whom was given,
With liberal hand, each fairer boon of heaven;
But, from his youth, defrauded of his due,
No kind, no lenient care Misfortune knew,
Till soften'd by his wrongs, the sacred powers
Bade Hermes soothe to milder grief his hours.
He placed Humanity for ever near,
And the sweet pleasures of the social tear;
Taught Love, with tender Amity to join,

To the most truly noble knight, worthy of all praise, loue, and honor, Sr Iohn Harington, onely sonne to the noble Lord, the Lord Harington.

Should I depaint thee with those shades and lights
(For rightest coulors will but wrong the life)
That might but touch thy vertues' depths and heights:
Arte with her selfe would striue to bee at strife:
For should I touch thy minde (intangible,
Fraught with whateuer makes or good or great,
As learning, language, artes immensible,
Witt, courage, courtesie; and all compleat)

Wattle blossoms, bright as gold,
Perfume wafting, fold on fold;
Gilding with their yellow sheen
Granite hills and gullies green,
Warm and sweet as Love, I ween.

WRITTEN IN A LADY'S ALBUM .

Muse's gifts are sweet — but doubly sweet
When to adorn the brow of Truth they're given;
To scatter flow'rs round lovely woman's feet,
And deok the path that leads her up to heaven.

I LOVE those spirits
That men stand off and point at,
Or shudder and hood up their souls —
Those ruined ones,
Where Liberty has lodged an hour
And passed like flame,
Bursting asunder the too small house.

I love the bright bold birdling wild,
The big tame social frog,
That oft have lonely hours beguiled
Beside me on the log.

I love the cat that rubs my cheek
In trustful confidence,
The big brown horse so old and weak
Beside my garden fence.

The simple joys are always best,
They leave no after sting,
They give to life the healthy zest
That joy was meant to bring.

And what are worldy riches worth
The wealthiest must know,
They come from earth and go to earth,
Just where we all must go.

Dear face — bright, glinting hair;
Dear life, whose heart is mine —
The thought of you is prayer,
The love of you divine.

In starlight, or in rain;
In the sunset's shrouded glow;
Ever, with joy or pain,
To you my quick thoughts go

Like winds or clouds, that fleet
Across the hungry space
Between, and find you, sweet,
Where life again wins grace.

Now, as in that once young
Year that so softly drew
My heart to where it clung,
I long for, gladden in you.

And when in the silent hours

Not a woman, child, or man in
All this isle, that loves thee, C[anni]ng.
Fools, whom gentle manners sway,
May incline to C[astlerea]gh,
Princes, who old ladies love,
Of the Doctor may approve,
Chancery lads do not abhor
Their chatty, childish Chancellor.
In Liverpool some virtues strike,
And little Van's beneath dislike.
Tho, if I were to be dead for't,
I could never love thee, H[eadfor]t:
(Every man must have his way)
Other grey adulterers may.
But thou unamiable object, —
Dear to neither prince, nor subject; —