Twin'St Thou With Lofty Wreath Thy Brow?

BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY.

Twin'st thou with lofty wreath thy brow? Such glory then thy beauty sheds, I almost think, while awed I bow 'Tis Rhea's self before me treads. Be what thou wilt,--this heart Adores whate'er thou art!

Dost thou thy loosened ringlets leave, Like sunny waves to wander free? Then, such a chain of charms they weave, As draws my inmost soul from me. Do what thou wilt,--I must Be charm'd by all thou dost!

Even when, enwrapt in silvery veils, Those sunny locks elude the sight,-- Oh, not even then their glory fails To haunt me with its unseen light. Change as thy beauty may, It charms in every way.

For, thee the Graces still attend, Presiding o'er each new attire, And lending every dart they send Some new, peculiar touch of fire, Be what thou wilt,--this heart Adores what'er thou art!

WHEN THE SAD WORD.

BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY.

When the sad word, "Adieu," from my lip is nigh falling, And with it, Hope passes away, Ere the tongue hath half breathed it, my fond heart recalling That fatal farewell, bids me stay, For oh! 'tis a penance so weary One hour from thy presence to be, That death to this soul were less dreary, Less dark than long absence from thee.

Thy beauty, like Day, o'er the dull world breaking. Brings life to the heart it shines o'er, And, in mine, a new feeling of happiness waking, Made light what was darkness before. But mute is the Day's sunny glory, While thine hath a voice, on whose breath, More sweet than the Syren's sweet story, My hopes hang, through life and through death!

MY MOPSA IS LITTLE.

BY PHILODEMUS.

My Mopsa is little, my Mopsa is brown, But her cheek is as smooth as the peach's soft down, And, for blushing, no rose can come near her; In short, she has woven such nets round my heart, That I ne'er from my dear little Mopsa can part,-- Unless I can find one that's dearer.

Her voice hath a music that dwells on the ear, And her eye from its orb gives a daylight so clear, That I'm dazzled whenever I meet her; Her ringlets, so curly, are Cupid's own net, And her lips, oh their sweetness I ne'er shall forget-- Till I light upon lips that are sweeter.

But 'tis not her beauty that charms me alone, 'Tis her mind, 'tis that language whose eloquent tone From the depths of the grave could revive one: In short, here I swear, that if death were her doom, I would instantly join my dead love in the tomb-- Unless I could meet with a live

STILL, LIKE DEW IN SILENCE FALLING.

BY MELEAGER.

Still, like dew in silence falling, Drops for thee the nightly tear Still that voice the past recalling, Dwells, like echo, on my ear, Still, still!

Day and night the spell hangs o'er me, Here forever fixt thou art: As thy form first shone before me, So 'tis graven on this heart, Deep, deep!

Love, oh Love, whose bitter sweetness, Dooms me to this lasting pain. Thou who earnest with so much fleetness, Why so slow to go again? Why? why?

UP, SAILOR BOY, 'TIS DAY.

Up, sailor boy, 'tis day! The west wind blowing, The spring tide flowing, Summon thee hence away. Didst thou not hear yon soaring swallow sing? Chirp, chirp,--in every note he seemed to say 'Tis Spring, 'tis Spring. Up boy, away,-- Who'd stay on land to-day? The very flowers Would from their bowers Delight to wing away!

Leave languid youths to pine On silken pillows; But be the billows Of the great deep thine. Hark, to the sail the breeze sings, "Let us fly;" While soft the sail, replying to the breeze, Says, with a yielding sigh, "Yes, where you; please." Up, boy, the wind, the ray, The blue sky o'er thee, The deep before thee, All cry aloud, "Away!"

IN MYRTLE WREATHS.

BY ALCAEUS.

In myrtle wreaths my votive sword I'll cover, Like them of old whose one immortal blow Struck off the galling fetters that hung over Their own bright land, and laid her tyrant low. Yes, loved Harmodius, thou'rt undying; Still midst the brave and free, In isles, o'er ocean lying, Thy home shall ever be.

In myrtle leaves my sword shall hide its lightning, Like his, the youth, whose ever-glorious blade Leapt forth like flame, the midnight banquet brightening;' And in the dust a despot victim laid. Blest youths; how bright in Freedom's story Your wedded names shall be; A tyrant's death your glory, Your meed, a nation free!

JUVENILE POEMS.

1801.

TO JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ.

MY DEAR SIR,

I feel a very sincere pleasure in dedicating to you the Second Edition of our friend LITTLE'S Poems. I am not unconscious that there are many in the collection which perhaps it would be prudent to have altered or omitted; and, to say the truth, I more than once revised them for that purpose; but, I know not why, I distrusted either my heart or my judgment; and the consequence is you have them in their original form:

non possunt nostros multae, Faustine, liturae emendare jocos; una litura potest.

I am convinced, however, that, though not quite a casuiste relâché, you have charity enough to forgive such inoffensive follies: you know that the pious Beza was not the less revered for those sportive Juvenilia which he published under a fictitious name; nor did the levity of Bembo's poems prevent him from making a very good cardinal.

Believe me, my dear friend.

With the truest esteem,

Yours,

T. M.

April 19, 1802