TO CYNTHIA: A young Lady, unknown to the Author, who, by letter, requested "a stanza,” or “a few lines in his handwriting." SPIRITS in heaven can interchange The motion of a feather darts As, in the stillness of the night, A spirit to a spirit speaks, That traced an unpretending song, What shall the poet's spirit send Cynthia is young,-may she be old; And fair no doubt, may she grow wrinkled; Her locks, in verse at least, are gold, May they turn silver, thinly sprinkled ; The rose her cheek, the fire her eye, Youth, health, and strength successive fly, And in the end,—may Cynthia die! "Unkind! inhuman !"-Stay your tears; I only wish you length of years; And wish them still, with all their woes, And all their blessings, till the close; For hope and fear, with anxious strife, Are wrestlers in the ring of life, And yesterday, to-day, to-morrow Are but alternate joy and sorrow. Now mark the sequel:-may your mind, In wisdom's paths, true pleasure find, Grow strong in virtue, rich in truth, And year by year renew its youth; Till, in the last triumphant hour, The spirit shall the flesh o'erpower, This from its sufferings gain release, And that take wing, and part in peace. FOR J. S., A PREAMBLE TO HER ALBUM. "Ut pictura poesis." HOR. De Arte Poetica, v. 361. Two lovely sisters here unite To blend improvement with delight,- To deck by turns the varied page. Here every glowing picture be As if the colours were pure thought, -Thought, from the bosom's inmost cell, By magic tints made visible, That, while the eye admires, the mind, As in a glass, itself may find. And may the Poet's verse, alike, In every line, "the line of grace," That Fancy here may gaze her fill, Or, borrowing voice, but touch the ear. Yet humble Prose with these shall stand, And, with the pen or pencil, make TO MARGARET; A little Girl, who begged to have some Verses from the Author, at Scarborough, in 1814. MARGARET! we never met before, And, Margaret! we may meet no more; What shall I say at parting? Scarce half a moon has run her race, Since first I saw your fairy-face, I dare not wish you stores of wealth, I dare not wish you beauty's prize, These look through tears, those breathe in sighs; Hear then my benediction; Of these good gifts be you possest But, little Margaret, may you be All that His eye delights to see, |