(XXII.)

It often comes into my head

That we may dream when we are dead,
But I am far from sure we do.

O that it were so! then my rest
Would be indeed among the blest;
I should for ever dream of you.

(XXVI.)

Ianthe! you are call'd to cross the sea!
A path forbidden me!

Remember, while the Sun his blessing sheds
Upon the mountain-heads,

How often we have watch'd him laying down
His brow, and dropp'd our own

Against each other's, and how faint and short
And sliding the support!

What will succeed it now? Mine is unblest,
Ianthe! nor will rest

But on the very thought that swells with pain.
O bid me hope again!

O give me back what Earth, what (without you)
Not Heaven itself can do,

One of the golden days that we have past;
And let it be my last!

Or else the gift would be, however sweet,
Fragile and incomplete.

(XXXII.)

There are some tears we would not wish to dry,
And some that sting before they drop and die.
Ah! well may be imagined of the two

Which I would ask of Heaven may fall from you.
Such, ere the lover sinks into the friend,
On meeting cheeks in warm attraction blend.

(LVIII).

Twenty years hence my eyes may grow
If not quite dim, yet rather so,

Still yours from others they shall know
Twenty years hence.

Twenty years hence, tho' it may hap
That I be call'd to take a nap
In the cool cell where thunder-clap
Was never heard.

There breathe but o'er my arch of grass
A not too sadly sigh'd Alas,

And I shall catch, ere you can pass,

That winged word.

(LXVIII.)

You smiled, you spoke, and I believed,
By every word and smile deceived.
Another man would hope no more;
Nor hope I what I hoped before :
But let not this last wish be vain;
Deceive, deceive me once again!

(LXXIV.)

So late removed from him she swore,
With clasping arms and vows and tears,
In life and death she would adore,

While memory, fondness, bliss, endears.

Can she forswear? can she forget?

Strike, mighty Love! strike, Vengeance! Soft! Conscience must come and bring regretThese let her feel!-nor these too oft!

(LXXV.)

Mild is the parting year, and sweet
The odour of the falling spray;
Life passes on more rudely fleet,
And balmless is its closing day.
I wait its close, I court its gloom,
But mourn that never must there fall
Or on my breast or on my tomb

The tear that would have sooth'd it all.

(LXXVII.)

Thank Heaven, Ianthe, once again
Our hands and ardent lips shall meet,
And Pleasure, to assert his reign,

Scatters ten thousand kisses sweet: Then cease repeating while you mourn, "I wonder when he will return."

Ah wherefore should you so admire
The flowing words that fill my song,
Why call them artless, yet require
"Some promise from that tuneful tongue?"
I doubt if heaven itself could part
A tuneful tongue and tender heart.

(LXXXIX.)

In Clementina's artless mien

Lucilla asks me what I see, And are the roses of sixteen Enough for me?

Lucilla asks, if that be all,

Have I not cull'd as sweet before:

Ah, yes, Lucilla! and their fall

I still deplore.

I now behold another scene,

Where Pleasure beams with heaven's own light,
More pure, more constant, more serene,
And not less bright:

Faith, on whose breast the Loves repose,
Whose chain of flowers no force can sever,
And Modesty, who, when she goes,
Is gone for ever.

(CXXXIX.)

The burden of an ancient rhyme
Is "By the forelock seize on Time."
Time in some corner heard it said;
Pricking his ears, away he fled;
And, seeing me upon the road,
A hearty curse on me bestow'd.
"What if I do the same to thee?

How wouldst thou like it?" thunder'd he,
And without answer thereupon

Seizing my forelock-it was gone.

(CLXXXIII.)

"Do you remember me? or are you proud? Lightly advancing thro' her star-trimm'd crowd, Ianthe said, and lookt into my eyes.

"A yes, a yes to both: for Memory

Where you but once have been must ever be,
And at your voice Pride from his throne must rise."

(CCXIII.)

The leaves are falling; so am I:

The few late flowers have moisture in the eye;
So have I too.

Scarcely on any bough is heard
Joyous, or even unjoyous, bird
The whole wood through.

Winter may come: he brings but nigher His circle (yearly narrowing) to the fire Where old friends meet:

Let him ;-now heaven is overcast,
And spring and summer both are past,
And all things sweet.

(CCXIV.)

The day returns again

Which once with bitter pain,

And only once for years, we spent apart.
Believe me, on that day

God heard me duly pray

For all his blessings on thy gentle heart:
Of late a cloud o'ercast

Its current; that is past;

But think not it hung lightly on my breast: Then, as my hours decline,

Still let thy starlight shine

Thro' my lone casement, till at last I rest.

(ccxv.)

The place where soon I think to lie,
In its old creviced nook hard by

Rears many a weed:

If parties bring you there, will you
Drop slily in a grain or two

Of wall-flower seed?

I shall not see it, and (too sure!)
I shall not ever hear that your
Light step was there;

But the rich odour some fine day
Will, what I cannot do, repay

That little care.