No melting lips, profuse of bliss,
Shall ever greet me with a kiss;

Nor balmy breath pour in mine ear,
The trifles love delights to hear;
But living, loveless, hopeless I,
Unmourned and unlov'd must die!

I chose thee, Ease, and yet to me,
Coy and ungrateful thou hast prov'd,
Though I have sacrific'd to thee,

Much that was worthy to be lov'd.
But come again, and I will yet,

Thy past ingratitude forget:

Oh! come again! thy 'witching powers,
Shall claim my solitary hours:

With thee to cheer me, heavenly queen,
And conscience clear, and health serene,
And friends, and books, to banish spleen
My life should be, as it has been,

A sweet variety of joys:

And Glory's crown, and Beauty's smile, And treasured hoards should seem the while, The idlest of all human toys.

The place you vacate in his heart
No other can supply.

The sails are spread, the winds arise
And bear her from my view!
My bosom throbs, tears wet my eyes!
Adieu, my friend, adieu!

YORICK.

FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

ODE TO MAY.

GIVE to joy your fleeting hours,
Nature fills the lap of May;
Cull the fairest, sweetest flowers,
But throw the thorns away.

The joys of vulgar souls despise,
Beneath their rose a serpent lies;
The nobler pleasures of the wise
Make one eternal May.

Give to joy your fleeting hours,
Life is swift to pass away;
Cull the fairest, sweetest flowers,
But throw the thorns away.

Though swift the forked lightnings fly,
And loud the thunder rolls on high;
The transient cloud still passes by,
And leaves a lovelier ray.

Give to joy your fleeting hours,
Nature fills the lap of May;
Cull the fairest, sweetest flowers,

Ere they fade away.

Bid Pain and Guilt and Malice fly,

Bid gentle Peace forever nigh;

And Hope who views with steadfast eye,
Her joys beyond to day.

Bid hail to Love, enchanting guest;
Bid Friendship welcome to the breast,
Bid gen'rous deeds by mis'ry blest
Mark every passing day.

Give, &c.

FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

EPIEUGENIUM,

WRITTEN IN THE INDIAN SUMMER OF 1812.

'Tis now the clear-tide of our western sky;
Time of plenty, time of joy!

Rich in fruits and housed grain,
Autumn holds his sumptuous reign.
The favours of benignant Heaven
-Its ripened sweets!-to man are given.
Rugged toil unbends his brow;
Nature's offspring revel now.

This is nature's jubilee,

Season of festivity..

In annual course, the brilliant orb of day,
teen times hath performed his way,
Since, in like joyous autumn bowers,
Hope watching anxious, o'er the hours;
A generous sire and beauteous dame,
Glowing, both, with love's pure flame,
Were blessed with a cherub child
Like her mother, "good and mild."

Season of love's jubilee,

Birth-day of fair Amadee!

Winter, with icy tresses and with plume of snows,
Chill season of a world's repose!

The lucid sky and piercing air
A gayer form and breathing bear,
Since the birth of that dear child
Of seraph mould and manners mild,

To Carlo's and Louisa's love

A sweet reward from Heaven above..

Oh! season of love's jubilee,
Amadee's nativity!

The autumn genius spreads his luscious care
For future growths and winter's fare;
Prepares, for stormy days, a hoard

That pleasure fastens to the board.
Even thus, the gentle, blooming maid,
In beauty and in love arrayed,

Is gifted with each power to please,
-To soften life's asperities!

Oh, happy shall the lover be

Who's bound to her nativity.

Accomplished, gentle creature! Love's own child,

Maiden of the blue eye mild!

Every virtue, every charm

Love can feel, or heart can warm,

In whose person, in whose mind,

Are all assembled, all combined!

May thy loved nativity

Prove as the birth of hope to me!

Natal day of Amadee!

Epoch of my jubilee!

SONNET.

My love is like the tints of dawn, she's like Aurora's ray;
My love is like the sunbeam, that gives me light and day;
My love is like the northern gleams, that brightly brightly play;
That flash amid the winter's gloom, and darkness drive away.
I love the dropping of the leaves, they speak my love's birth day,
I'll strew them in her path the morn, the morn of her birth day.

My love is like the tuneful lark, so modest is her air;
My love is like the stately swan, so fair, so spotless fair;

My love is like the desert rose, unconscious of her charms; I bear her in my faithful breast, I'll fold her in my arms.

My love is like the evergreens, that bud at autumn's close, That enliven the blank winter scenes, Hope's emblem mid the

snows;

My love is like the orange bulb, like Neagh's strawberry tree, Which blossom when the summers close, at her nativity. I love the dropping of the leaves, they speak my love's birth day, I'll strew them in her path the morn, the morn of her birth day.

Every grace, without art,

All acknowledge who view her.

Like her own meek-eyed dove,
She is timid! my love!

Still her eyes, at her will,
Can rejoice, or can kill.

Oh! they have shot to my heart,

And my soul cleaves unto her.

I love the dropping of the leaves, they speak my love's birth day; I'll strew them in her path the morn,

The morn of her birth day.

CAMILDHU.

A SONG: THE ROSE. FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

SEE! says my Jane, this tender rose
No longer with vermillion glows,
Its odour with its colour flies,

See how it droops its head and dies!

This envious flower, love! once so sleek,

Has seen your ruby lips and cheek:
Has felt the fragrance of your breath,
And conquered-griev'd itself to death.

ALEXIS.