The Chain is of a splendid thread,
Stolen from Minerva's yellow hair,
Just when the setting sun had shed
The sober beam of evening there.
The Wreath's of brightest myrtle wove,
With brilliant tears of bliss among it,
And many a rose-leaf, cull'd by Love,
To heal his lip when bees have stung it!
Come, tell me which the tie shall be
To bind thy gentle heart to me.

Yes, yes, I read that ready eye,

Which answers when the tongue is loath, Thou likest the form of either tie,

And hold'st thy playful hands for both. Ah!—if there were not something wrong, The world would see them blended oft; The Chain would make the Wreath so strong!

The Wreath would make the Chain so soft!

Then might the gold, the flow'rets be
Sweet fetters for my love and me!

But, FANNY, so unblest they twine,

That (Heaven alone can tell the reason)

When mingled thus they cease to shine,
Or shine but for a transient season!
Whether the Chain may press too much,
Or that the Wreath is slightly braided,
Let but the gold the flow'rets touch,

And all their glow, their tints, are faded! Sweet FANNY, what would Rapture do,

When all her blooms had lost their grace? Might she not steal a rose or two

From other Wreaths, to fill their place?— Oh! better to be always free,

Than thus to bind my love to me.

THE timid girl now hung her head,
And, as she turn'd an upward glance,
I saw a doubt its twilight spread
Along her brow's divine expanse.
Just then, the garland's dearest rose
Gave one of its seducing sighs-
Oh! who can ask how FANNY chose,
That ever look'd in FANNY's eyes!
"The Wreath, my life, the Wreath shall be
"The tie to bind my soul to thee!"

ΤΟ

AND hast thou mark'd the pensive shade, That many a time obscures my brow, 'Midst all the blisses, darling maid,

Which thou canst give, and only thou?

Oh! 'tis not that I then forget

The endearing charms that round me twine

There never throbb'd a bosom yet

Could feel their witchery, like mine!

When bashful on my bosom hid,

And blushing to have felt so blest, Thou dost but lift thy languid lid, Again to close it on my breast!

Oh! these are minutes all thine own,

Thine own to give, and mine to feel,
Yet, even in them, my heart has known
The sigh to rise, the tear to steal.

For I have thought of former hours,
When he who first thy soul possess'd,
Like me awaked its witching powers,

Like me was loved, like me was blest!

Upon his name thy murmuring tongue

Perhaps hath all as sweetly dwelt ; For him that snowy lid hath hung In extacy, as purely felt!

For him-yet why the past recal

To wither blooms of

present bliss?

Thou'rt now my own, I clasp thee all,
And Heaven can grant no more than this!

Forgive me, dearest, oh! forgive;
I would be first, be sole to thee;
Thoushouldst but have begun to live
The hour that gave thy heart to me.

Thy book of life till then effaced,

Love should have kept that leaf alone On which he first so dearly traced

That thou wert, soul and all, my own !

EPISTLE VI.

ΤΟ

LORD VISCOUNT FORBES.

VOL. II.