. Poems . them to the sun. There first I saw her; There on that day. Her dark and eloquent eyes Twas heaven to look upon ; and her sweet voice. As tuneable as harp of many strings. At once spoke joy and sadness to my soul! Dear is that valley to the murmuring bees ;And all, who know it, come and come again. 171 The small birds build there; and, at summer-noon,Oft have I heard a child, gay among flowers,As in the shining grass she sate to herself. FROM AN ITALIAN SONNET. Love, under Friendships vesture white,Laughs, his little limbs concealing;And oft in sport, and oft in
. Poems . them to the sun. There first I saw her; There on that day. Her dark and eloquent eyes Twas heaven to look upon ; and her sweet voice. As tuneable as harp of many strings. At once spoke joy and sadness to my soul! Dear is that valley to the murmuring bees ;And all, who know it, come and come again. 171 The small birds build there; and, at summer-noon,Oft have I heard a child, gay among flowers,As in the shining grass she sate to herself. FROM AN ITALIAN SONNET. Love, under Friendships vesture white,Laughs, his little limbs concealing;And oft in sport, and oft in Pity meets the dazzled sight,Smiles thro his tears revealing. But now as Rage the God appears!He frowns, and tempests shake his frame !-Frowning, or smiling, or in tears,Tis Love; and Love is still the same. A CHARACTER. As thro the hedge-row shade the violet the sweet air its modest leaf reveals;Her softer charms, but by their influence known,Surprise all hearts, and mould them to her Caged in old woods, whose reverend echoes wakeWhen the hern screams along the distant little heart oft flutters to be free,Oft sighs to turn the unrelenting vain! the nurse that rusted relic moved by gold—nor to be moved by tears;And terraced walls their black reflection tlnowOn the green-mantled moat that sleeps below. A FAREWELL. 1800. Once more, enchanting maid, adieu !I must be gone while yet I shall I weep to think of you;But here I will not, cannot stay. The sweet expression of that face,For ever changing, yet the same,Ah no, I dare not turn to melts my soul, it fires my frame! Yet give me, give me, ere I little lock of those so lend your cheek a warmer glow,And on your white neck love to rest. —Say, when, to kindle soft delight,That hand has chanced with mine to meet,How could its thrilling touch exciteA sigh so short, and yet so sweet ? O say—but no, it must not ! A long, a long adieu!—Yet st
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