There was a harp of old that hung
In fairy woods, — and youths of fire
Would touch the string, and, as they sung,
Breathe forth their inmost heart's desire.

Then swift the harp an answer made,
An answer ne'er to be forgot,
And told the swain the bashful maid
Was his alone, — or she was not.

Oh, were that harp existing now,
I would not seek its wild decree,
I'd trust unto my Mary's vow,
That she exists alone for me.

I'd sooner trust her glancing eye,
Which hath for me a sun-shine wore,

Ah, virtuous Bard! how sadly-silent lies
Thy tuneful tongue, that, with melodious sound,
Sung GOD's amazing works — the lofty skies
With glory beaming — earth with beauty crown'd.

Tho' here thy mortal part, in humble dust,
Lies underneath this sacred roof, interr'd;
Thy happy soul, united to the just,
Meets the reward thy wish to fame preferr'd.

The brazen tablet, a memorial here,
May moulder; but thy name shall never die:
For, in thy works, to Truth and Genius dear,
Shine, love to man, and love to GOD most high.

Who shall gain the maiden's love?
For so lovely are her eyes,
And so lovely are her eyes,
Who shall have them for a prize!

As a hawk's, her eyes no less
Than flowers are in loveliness,
But how may he bear their stress
Who in their fair bondage lies?
For so lovely are her eyes,
Who shall have them for a prize!

For her eyes, that clear and fair
As a royal eagle's are,
Turn the living to despair,
And the dead are racked with sighs.
For so lovely are her eyes,
Who shall have them for a prize!

To whom shall I my sorrows tell?
Who will listen to my woe?
Why in such a time farewell,
Comfort, wouldst thou bid, and go,
Leaving Love alone to dwell?

Hope, that fair appeared to me,
What away from me could wean thee?
Were I now thy face to see
Still wouldst thou a stranger be,
Since so long I have not seen thee!

They who sightless Love portray
No wise fancy so devise,
For Love has as many eyes
As the deaths for which I pray;
And not one to me replies.

How comely the maiden,
How lovely and fair!
Now tell me, thou sailor,
Who hast lived on the sea,
If ship, sail or star
Is fair as she.

And tell me, thou knight,
Wont in arms to be,
If steed, arms or war
Is fair as she.

And thou, shepherd-boy,
As thou keepest thy sheep,
If flock, hill or valley
Is fair as she.

Welcome to our longing sight,
Lovely Spring! with true delight,
We behold thy blissful charms,
Which the chearing sunshine warms,
Soft'ning breezes, length'ning days,
Vivid Light's more glorious rays;
Rising verdure, early flow'rs,
Op'ning in the fragrant bow'rs:
Spring ! those pleasing gifts are thine:
Now the fields with daisies shine—
Now the mossy banks display
Vi'lets smiling in the day,
Primroses, and cowslips, there,
Give fresh odours to the air:
See, for thee the wild-rose blooms,
Honeysuckles breathe perfumes;

Forbear, kind Sir, forbid your tears to flow:
Since Delia's false, she is not worth a tear:
Quench the fierce flame, forget it e'er did glow
With ardent love — thy breast is too sincere.

Gentle she's not, nor constant as the dove,
But proud and fickle as the restless wind;
Her breast ne'er felt the pangs of injur'd love,
And Plutus only govern'd Delia's mind.

Tear from thy breast with scorn the venom'd dart,
Send it the fair whose bosom beats so cold;
Tell her it was the victim of a heart

Daughter, whence come you
So white and so fair? —
Mother, I come
From the banks of a river.
There found I my love
By a rose-tree in flower. —
In flower, my daughter
So white and so fair. —
Mother, I come
From the banks of a stream.
There found I my love
By a red rose-tree. —
Red rose-tree, my daughter
So white and so fair.

The rose is weeping for her love,
The Nightingale;
And he is flying fast above,
To her he will not fail.
Already golden eve appears,
He wings his way along;
Ah! look, he comes to kiss her tears,
And soothe her with his song.

The moon in pearly light may steep
The still blue air;
The rose hath ceased to droop and weep,
For lo! her love is there.
He sings to her, and o'er the trees
She hears his sweet notes swim;
The world may weary; she but sees
Her love, and hears but him.

Ah! soft wanton zephyrs soft blow,
On th' bank is Miranda reclin'd;
Disturb not those hillocks of snow,
Which alternate rise with the wind.

Distil from each fragrant flower,
The sweets which your breath can impart;
And Love, let her feel thy soft pow'r,
But cautiously wound with thy dart.

Be certain you strike not too deep,
Nor give her fair bosom a pain;
And, ah! when awaken'd from sleep,