At her fair hands how have I grace entreated,
With prayers oft repeated!
Yet still my love is thwarted:
Heart, let her go, for she'll not be converted.
Say, shall she go?
Oh! no, no, no, no, no;
She is most fair, though she be marble-hearted.

How often have my sighs declared mine anguish,
Wherein I daily languish!
Yet doth she still procure it:
Heart, let her go, for I cannot endure it.
Say, shall she go?
Oh! no, no, no, no, no;
She gave the wound, and she alone must cure it.

Why blame the pranks that love does ever play?
What though my eyes be wet, my temples gray?
These cares are but the signs of passion's fire,
Of sleepless nights and unfulfilled desire,
Only the flame within me freshly burns,
All else to age and feebleness returns.
Yet though my sides are wrinkled in their prime,
My neck all loose and slack before its time,
If thou, dear heart, to love me now will deign
I shall grow young, my hair turn black again.

Let not, sweet saint! let not these lines offend you;
Nor yet the message that these lines impart:
The message my unfeigned love doth send you,
Love, which yourself hath planted in my heart.
For being charmed by the bewitching art
Of those inveigling graces which attend you,
Love's holy fire makes me breathe out in part
The never-dying flames my breast doth lend you.
Then if my lines offend, let Love be blamed;
And if my love displease, accuse mine eyes:
If mine eyes sin, their sin's cause only lies

If Love should faint, and half decline
Below the fit meridian sign,
And shorn of all his golden dress,
His royal state and loveliness,
Be no more worth a heart like thine,
Let not thy nobler passion pine,
But, with a charity divine,
Let Memory ply her soft address
If Love should faint;
And oh! this laggard heart of mine,
Like some halt pilgrim stirred with wine,
Shall ache in pity's dear distress,
Until the balms of thy caress
To work the finished cure combine,
If Love should faint.

A BALLAD,

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND KILLED AT THE BATTLE OF SARATOGA .

When many hearts were gay,
Careless of aught but play,
Poor Flora slipt away
Sadd'ning to Mora.
Loose flowed her coal-black hair,
Quick heaved her bosom bare,
As thus to the troubled air
She vented her sorrow:

Loud howls the stormy west,
Cold, cold is winter's blast:—
Haste then, O Donald, haste!
Haste to thy Flora!
Twice twelve long months are o'er

The dream that we beheld will never more
On mortal wondering dazzled eyes descend.
The sea, less jewelled, will break along the shore:
Love's voice with music will less softly blend.

The rose will veil its splendour when we die.
" Something there was within its tender bloom "
Each loving heart may say, " which, living, I,
I only, saw, — that ceases at my tomb "

And woman? Did not one soul find her fair
Beyond all mortals who have lived and died?
Breathe all heaven's fragrance in her marvellous hair?

A stripling in my youthful pride
I heeded not the darts of Love,
The power of Venus I denied,
Against her mandates strove.

But now my locks are all but gray,
I feel the sting of mad desire,
I bend my neck beneath Love's sway
And burn with sudden fire.

Take then thy thrall, O Paphian queen,
And laugh elate with smiling eyes;
Pallas again has vanquished been,
The apple is thy prize.

For whom shall I array my hair,
For whom my hands adorn,
For whom my sea-dyed tunic wear,
Now I am left forlorn?

Mine eyes of Rhodopi berest
Find naught to make them gay,
No joy in golden dawn is left
Now that my love's away.

This is love's vintage hour; within my arms
I hold imprisoned all thy rosy charms,
The crown of my desire, nor can see
In spring or summer aught so fair as thee.
Thy autumn beauties every treasure hold,
Oh, may they bloom for aye, nor e'er grow old.
And yet, what care I? When the grapes lie piled,
Men do not heed the curling tendrils wild.
And so my love will constant last, I trow,
E'en when the tendril wrinkles line thy brow.

O Lord! whose forming hand one blood
To all the tribes and nations gave,
And giv'st to all their daily food,
Look down in pity on the slave!

Fetters and chains and stripes remove,
Deliv'rance to the captives give;
And pour the tide of light and love
Upon their souls, and bid them live.

Oh! kindle in our hearts a flame
Of zeal, thy holy will to do;
And bid each one, who loves thy name,
Love all his bleeding brethren too.

Through all thy temples, let the stain
Of prejudice each bosom flee;