For peace and me can pomp resign : Such the heart that 's made for mine. Whose soul with generous friendship glows; Such be mine, if such there be. Whose genuine thoughts, devoid of art, A simple train, from falsehood free: Avaunt, ye light coquets! retire, Should Love, fantastic as he is, And should she change-but can that be? No other maid is made for me. HAMILTON. HAIL to the myrtle shade, All hail to the nymphs of the fields ! Kings would not here invade The pleasure that virtue yields. Beauty here opens her arms To soften the languishing mind, And PHYLLIS unlocks her charms; Ah PHYLLIS! oh why so kind? PHYLLIS, thou soul of love, Thou joy of the neighbouring swains ; PHYLLIS, that crowns the grove, And PHYLLIS that gilds the plains; PHYLLIS, that ne'er had the skill To paint, to patch and be fine, Yet PHYLLIS whose eyes can kill, PHYLLIS, whose charming song Makes labour and pains a delight; PHYLLIS, that makes the day young, And shortens the livelong night; PHYLLIS, PHYLLIS, whose lips like May Still laugh at the sweets they bring ; Where love never knows decay, But sits with eternal spring. TELL me no more how fair she is ; I have no mind to hear And tell me not how fond I am But to repent too late : There is some hope ere long I In silence dote myself away. may I ask no pity, Love, from thee, The glory of my flame, LEE. Which crowns my heart whene'er it dies, HEN. KING, BISHOP OF CHICHESTER. FROM thy waves, stormy Lannow, I fly, Yet lonely and rude as the scene, Her smile to that scene could impart A charm that might rival the bloom of the vale ;— But away, thou fond dream of my heart! To thy rocks, stormy Lannow, adieu! Now the blasts of the winter come on, Sincere were the sighs it repress'd, But they rose in the days that are flown ; Ah, nymph! unrelenting and cold as thou art, To thy rocks, stormy Lannow, adieu! Lo! Lo! the wings of the sea-fowl are spread, To escape the rough storm by their flight; And these caves will afford them a gloomy retreat Like them to its shades I retire: Receive me, and shield my vext spirit, ye groves! From the storms of insulted desire. From thy waves, rocky Lannow, I fly! ANNA SEWARD. WHILE in the bower with beauty blest The loved AMINTOR lies, A waking nightingale, who long And warbled thro' the glade. "Melodious songstress," cried the swain, To shades less happy go; Or, |