But hark! that strain was of a graver tone,

On the deep strings his hand some hermit throws; Or he, the sacred Bard*, who sat alone

In the drear waste, and wept his people's woes.

Such was the song which Zion's children sung,
When by Euphrates' stream they made their plaint;
And to such sadly solemn notes are strung
Angelic harps, to soothe a dying saint.

Methinks I hear the full celestial choir,

Thro' heaven's high dome their awful anthem raise; Now chanting clear, and now they all conspire To swell the lofty hymn from praise to praise.

Let me, ye wandering spirits of the wind,

Who, as wild fancy prompts you, touch the string, Smit with your theme, be in your chorus join'd, For till you cease, my Muse forgets to sing.

• Jeremiah.

308

SONGS.

TELL me, thou soul of her I love,
Ah! tell me, whither art thou fled;
To what delightful world above,
Appointed for the happy dead?!

Or dost thou, free, at pleasure, roam, And sometimes share thy lover's woe; Where, void of thee, his cheerless home Can now, alas! no comfort know?...

Oh! if thou hover'st round my walk, While, under every well-known tree, I to thy fancy'd shadow talk,'

Should then the weary eye of grief,
Beside some sympathetic stream,

In slumber find a short relief,

Oh visit thou my soothing dream!

COME, gentle God of soft desire,

Come and possess my happy breast, Not fury-like in flames and fire,

Or frantic folly's wildness drest;

But come in friendship's angel-guise:
Yet dearer thou than friendship art,
More tender spirit in thy eyes,

More sweet emotions at the heart.

O come with goodness in thy train,
With peace and pleasure void of storm,

And wouldst thou me for ever gain,
Put on Amanda's winning form.

ONE day the God of fond desire,
On mischief bent, to Damon said,
Why not disclose your tender fire,

Not own it to the lovely maid?

The shepherd mark'd his treacherous art, And, softly sighing, thus reply'd:

'Tis true, you have subdu'd my heart, But shall not triumph o'er my pride.

The slave, in private only bears

Your bondage, who his love conceals; But when his passion he declares,

You drag him at your chariot-wheels.

HARD is the fate of him who loves,

Yet dares not tell his trembling pain,'

But to the sympathetic groves,

But to the lonely listening plain.

Oh! when she blesses next your shade, Oh! when her footsteps next are seen In flowery tracts along the mead,

Ye gentle spirits of the vale,

To whom the tears of love are dear, From dying lilies waft a gale,

And sigh my sorrows in her ear.

Oh! tell her what she cannot blame,

Though fear my tongue must ever bind;

Oh tell her, that my virtuous flame
Is as her spotless soul refin'd.

Not her own guardian angel eyes
With chaster tenderness his care,

Not purer her own wishes rise,

Not holier her own sighs in pray'r.

But if, at first, her virgin fear

Should start at love's suspected name, With that of friendship soothe her ear

True love and friendship are the same.