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O! with what eager, keen delight

I trac'd a form distinct and clear, That cheated my enraptur'd sight,

With the blest thought that he was near.

Love still was weeping in his eyes,
As first the little traitor stole,
Conceal'd in Pity's soft disguise,
To pierce and agonize my soul.

Upon his cheek the lingering tear

Told me in absence he was true;

And that pale cheek was far more dear
Than had it glow'd with joy's bright hue.

His glistening eyes long fix'd on me,
A thousand tender hopes impart ;
For such the looks 'twas heaven to see,
When first he sought and won my heart:

Methought they bade my sorrows cease,
And charm'd despondence from my breast;
Methought they promis'd joy and peace,
And, for a moment, I was blest.

But ah! too soon I wake and weep!
Too soon the hated morning-beam
Dispels the phantasies of sleep!—
Alas! and was it but a dream?

In dreams by night, in dreams by day,
Methinks I see thee still before me!
Methinks I hear the faltering voice
That whisper'd Laura, I adore thee!'

Alas! the rapid, conscious blush

Too soon proclaim'd what then befel me! My downcast looks, my trembling frame,

Told much, much more than words could tell thee.

And art thou lost? for ever lost?—

Ah! how I wept when it was told me That I must hear thy voice no more! That I must never more behold thee!

These fruitless tears will ever fall!
Ev'n Hope refuses to deceive me.-
But the blank sadness that I feel,

I will not paint for it would grieve thee.

Yet faithful Memory oft shall bring

Thy tender words and looks, to cheer me : Still on her treasur'd hoards I'll live,

And my fond soul shall hover near thee!

AMELIA OPIE.

1800.

Formerly Miss Alderson, daughter of Dr. Alderson of Norwich. This lady is now wife of Mr. Opie, the painter. Mrs. Opie is not only a fascinating writer, but a highlyaccomplished and beautiful woman, She was born at Norwich.

THE VOICE OF HIM I LOVE.

HENCE far from me, ye senseless joys
That fade before ye reach the heart,—
The crowded dome's distracted noise,
Where all is pomp and useless art!

Give me my home, to quiet dear,
Where hours untold and peaceful move;
So fate ordain I sometimes there
May hear the voice of him I love.

I hate ev'n music's pleasing pow'r
When giddy crowds my tones attend,
But love to sing at evening's hour
To sooth the sorrows of a friend.

I love to breathe the plaintive lays
That HENRY's heart and taste approve;
For, oh! how sweet in tones of praise
Appears the voice of him I love!

The praises I from others hear
Some joy may to my pride impart ;
But Henry's wake the rapturous tear,
For his applauses touch my heart.

From busy crowds o'erjoy'd I fly
With him in lonely shades to rove,
For ev'n in gayest scenes I sigh
To hear the voice of him I love.

I woo the drama's magic pow'rs,
Seek music's ever-crowded shrine,
In learning pass the studious hours,
Or try the muse's wreath to twine;
Yet still I feel a joy more dear,
Though I these pure delights approve,
When in Retirement's scenes I hear
The soothing voice of him I love.

Go, youth belov'd, in distant glades,
New friends, new hopes, new joys to find!
Yet sometimes deign, midst fairer maids,
To think on her thou leav'st behind.

Thy love, thy fate, dear youth, to share
Must never be my happy lot;
But thou may'st grant this humble pray'r,
Forget me not, forget me not!

Yet should the thought of my distress
Too painful to thy feelings be,
Heed not the wish I now express,
Nor ever deign to think on me :

But, oh! if grief thy steps attend,
If want, if sickness, be thy lot,
And thou require a soothing friend,
Forget me not! forget me not!

THOMAS MOORE.

1801.

This poet, who has been appropriately styled the Carew of our age, is a native of Ireland, where he was first educated under the celebrated Whyte, whose attentions have been acknowledged in a Sonnet inserted by his pupil in the "Anthologia Hibernica." Moore was afterwards removed to Trinity College, Dublin. Since then, he has entered himself at the Middle Temple; though it is not probable that Law engaged much of his attention, whose days appear to have been devoted to the elegancies of literature, and whose evenings have not been estranged from the customary festivities of youth. Among the pieces inserted by Moore in the "Anthologia Hibernica" for 1793-1794, is a translation from Anacreon, a name with which his own promises to be inseparably associated. Mr. Moore is lately returned from a tour through the United States, after relinquishing an appointment, to which he seems to have been amicably banished, in the Bahama Islands!

Tell her, that he whose living themes
Her eye indulgent wanders o'er,
Could sometimes wake from idle dreams,
And bolder flights of fancy soar:

That Glory oft would claim the lay,

And Friendship oft his numbers move;
But whisper then, that Sooth to say,
His sweetest song was given to Love!'

LITTLE's Poems,

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