Lines

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY IN GERMANY,

Who, until her Sister, honoured the Author by walking with him in the Evening.

Adieu! dear girl! if we are doom’d to part, Take with thee, take, the blessing of this heart, Due to thy gentle mind, and cultur’d sense; Perhaps ’twill please, but, sure, can’t give offence. Tho’, when we met, the solar ray was gone, And on our steps the moon-beam only shone, Yet well I mark’d thy form and native grace, And all the sweet expression of thy face; And pleas’d I listen’d as thy accents fell, Accents that spoke a feeling mind so well Lo, when the birds repose at ev’ning hour, The sweetest of them carols from her bow’r! So, when the dews the garden’s fragrance close, The night-flow’r blooms, the rival of the rose!

One of the creeping cereuses, usually known by the name of the night-flower, is said to be as grand and as beautiful as any in the vegetable system. It begins to open in the evening, about seven o’clock; is in perfection about eleven, perfuming the air to a considerable distance, and fades about four in the morning.

LINES TO STUDY.

O Study! while thy lovers raise Thy name with all the pow’r of praise, Frown not, thou nymph with piercing mind! If in this bosom thou should’st find That all thy deep, thy brilliant, lore, Which charm’d it once, now charms no more: Frown not, if, on thy classic line, One strange, uncall’d-for, tear should shine; Frown not, if, when a smile should start, A sigh should heave an aching heart: If Mem’ry, roving far away, Should an unmeaning homage pay, Should ask thee for thy golden fruit, And, when thou deign’st to hear her suit, Should turn her from the proffer’d food, To tread the shades of Solitude: Frown not, if, in the humble line, Ungrac’d by any thought of thine, Should but that gentle name appear, Fond cause of ev’ry joy and fear; I love, tho’ rude, I love it more, Than all thy piles of letter’d lore: Frown not if ev’ry airy word, Which Beauty breathes, or Love has heard, More rich, more eloquently, flow, To Mem’ry gives a warmer glow, Than all by thee so much approv’d, The wit of age on age improv’d. Go, then! and, since it is denied That thou shalt be my radiant guide! Leave me to sigh, to weep, to prove How little Learning is to Love.

SONG.

Wilt thou, because thy Florio loves, Forsake the giddy glitt’ring throng, With him to dwell in peaceful groves, With him to hear the shepherd’s song?

Can’st thou, without a sigh, resign The homage by thy charms inspir’d? To one, oh! say, can’st thou confine What oft so many have admir’d?

Sweet maid! oh! bless’d shall be our love, Till time shall bid it cease to flow; With thee shall ev’ry moment prove A little heaven form’d below!