Only a glimpse of Seraph-land,
A glimmer from above
That dwelt a little while;
The rosebud softness of a hand,
Two eyes upturned in love;
The heaven of a Baby's Smile!

August is here; within the ivy leaves
The bees make mournful music, and the sea
Is pale with presaged Autumn and wild songs
Wanton upon the waves ... Strange spirits speak
Within the dusk-winds; phantom-hands implore
Sweet Summer back again. The sunshine stands
Reluctantly upon the mountain-top
Smiling farewell to the awaiting waves.
Already evening brings a scent of frost,
And late the white dew lies upon the lawn.
The harvest moon grows pallid in the sky,
And far the stars seem on their sapphire thrones.

Love is a passion, by no rules confin'd,
The great first mover of the human mind:
Spring of our fate! it lifts the climbing will ,
Or sinks the soften'd soul, in seas of ill:
Science, truth, virtue, sweetness, glory, grace,
All are love's influence, and adorn his race;
Love, too, gives fear, despair, grief, anger, strife,
And all th' unnumber'd woes, which tempest life,

 Fir'd with a daring wish, to paint him right,
What muse shall I invoke to lend me light?
Something divine there lives in love's soft flame,

When Afric's sun was setting fast
The Prophets told the tale,
But Psalmists said she'd win at last
And pass beyond the vale. Chorus:

Come sing the song of Afric's love
The love of God so dear,
The Father great in realms above,
The greatest when so near.

The day has come for us to see
The glory of our name,
The hour of our jubilee
Will crown our greatest fame.

Let all records be searchèd o're and o're,
Such an unequal marriage as this
Was never seen or heard before,
Where heaven and earth, God and man kiss,
Where Majesty and misery do meet,
Power and infirmity each other greet.

Thou art the King of Glory, Lord of life,
Thy Spouse at best a creature poor; but since
Her fall, deformed, and not fit wife
Will make for Thee so great a Prince.
Go court the Angels then; yet they, though bright,
Are creatures too, and scarce pure in Thy sight;

How much less I that on my belly creep,

H — — e, sweet name! whose princely meaning shows,
From what high spring , your blood's rich current flows,
With needless awe , reminds us of your race ,
Since heav'n has stampt dominion on your face.
Still, in your sov'reign form , distinctly live,
All royal rights, your father kings could give!
In your commanding air , we mark their state ,
And, in your words , their wisdom , and their weight .
Warm, in your noble breast , their courage lies,
And all their pow'r , and mercy , in your eyes .

I.

How long will lovely Amaret complain,
 In gentle notes , that wound each list'ning ear?
How long, alas! will she delight in pain,
 Which choice , not fate , inclines her soul to bear!

II.

 Strange paradox of love!—the vanquish'd maid,
 By cruel conquest , many still destroys!
What beauty gives her— passion has betray'd,
  And love, misplac'd, prevented all her joys .

III.

One way, and only one, does, yet, remain,
 Whereby, lost peace of mind you may restore,
Abandon'd ease , and your blest state regain,

I.

Is there a stream on this sweet earth
In vale or woodland, where
Traditions of unhappy love
Breathe not like summer air?

II.

There is no thought to hallow earth
With more consoling gladness
Than the true comfort she hath given
To lovers in their sadness.

III.

Green trees and streams and castled steeps
Are sweetest when they move,
The gentle forms in stirring songs
Of old disastrous love.

IV.

Born of no time or nation, still,
In its imperial force,

From the earliest days,
Ev'ry writer of lays
Has delighted to sing about Passion;
But of rhymes there's a dearth
For the Briton by birth
Who would follow this popular fashion.
For though Love is a theme
That we poets esteem
As unrivalled, immortal, sublime too,
'Tis a word that the bard
Finds it daily more hard
To discover a suitable rhyme to!
For one can't always mention the " stars up above, "

I.

When Jacob 's muse re-strings the slacken'd lyre ,
And, sweetly pensive, sounds the meaning strain,
Why does his fruitless modesty , in vain,
Conceal his name , yet, not conceal his fire :
Since sentiments alone the soul explain,
Keep your thoughts hid, or think not you retire .

II.

Rare, and soon-mark'd, in this receiving age,
Strait, to its spring , unvenal verse is trac'd;
Its course far shining, tho' its banks defac'd!
'Twas needless to subscribe the speaking page,
Unpension'd eminence, and worth mis-plac'd ,