Alas! the fertile fount of sense,

At which the young, the panting soul
Drinks life and love, too soon decays!

Sweet Lamp! thou wert not form'd to shed
Thy splendour on a lifeless page-
Whate'er my blushing LAIs said

Of thoughful lore and studies sage, 'Twas mockery all-her glance of joy Told me thy dearest, best employ !*

And, soon as night shall close the eye

Of Heaven's young wanderer in the west;

* MAUPERTUIS has been still more explicit than this philosopher, in ranking the pleasures of sense above the sublimest pursuits of wisdom. Speaking of the infant man, in his production, he calls him, "une nouvelle créature, qui pourra comprendre les choses les plus sublimes, et ce qui est bien au-dessus, qui pourra goûter les mêmes plaisirs."-See his Vénus Physique. This appears to be one of the efforts at Fontenelle's gallantry of manner, for which the learned President is so well ridiculed in the Akakia of VOLTAIRE.

MAUPERTUIS may be thought to have borrowed from the ancient ARISTIPPUS that indiscriminate theory of pleasures which he has set forth in his Essai de Philosophie Morale, and for which he was so very justly condemned. ARISTIPPUS, according to LAERTIUS, held un diapeguir te ndorny ÿdorns, which irrational sentiment has been adopted by MAUPERTUIS : "Tant qu'on ne considère que l'état présent, tous les plaisirs sont du même genre," etc. etc.

When seers are gazing on the sky,

To find their future orbs of rest;
Then shall I take my trembling way,
Unseen but to those worlds above,
And, led by thy mysterious ray,
Glide to the pillow of my love.

Calm be her sleep, the gentle dear!
Nor let her dream of bliss so near,
Till o'er her cheek she thrilling feel
My sighs of fire in murmurs steal,
And I shall lift the locks that flow
Unbraided o'er her lids of snow,
And softly kiss those sealed eyes,
And wake her into sweet surprise!

Or if she dream, oh! let her dream

Of those delights we both have known, And felt so truly, that they seem

Form'd to be felt by us alone!

And I shall mark her kindling cheek,
Shall see her bosom warmly move,
And hear her faintly, lowly speak

The murmur'd sounds so dear to love!

Oh! I shall gaze till even the sigh
That wafts her very soul be nigh,

And, when the nymph is all but blest,
Sink in her arms and share the rest!
Sweet LAIS! what an age of bliss

In that one moment waits for me!
Oh sages!-think on joy like this,
And where's your boast of apathy?

TO MRS. BL-H-D.

WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM.

Τετο δε τι εστι το ποτον; πλάνη, εφη.

Cebetis Tabula.

THEY say that Love had once a book
(The urchin likes to copy you),
Where all who came the pencil took,
And wrote, like us, a line or two.

'Twas Innocence, the maid divine,

Who kept this volume bright and fair, And saw that no unhallow'd line,

Or thought profane, should enter there.

With fond device and loving lore,

And every leaf she turn'd was still

More bright than that she turn'd before!

Beneath the touch of Hope, how soft,
How light the magic pencil ran!
Till Fear would come, alas! as oft,

And trembling close what Hope began.

A tear or two had dropp'd from Grief,
And Jealousy would, now and then,
Ruffle in haste some snowy leaf,

Which Love had still to smooth again!

But, oh! there was a blooming boy
Who often turn'd the pages o'er,
And wrote therein such words of joy,
As all who read still sigh'd for more!

And Pleasure was this spirit's name,
And though so soft his voice and look,
Yet Innocence, whene'er he came,
Would tremble for her spotless book!

For still she saw his playful fingers

Fill'd with sweets and wanton toys;

And well she knew the stain that lingers After sweets from wanton boys!

And so it chanced, one luckless night

He let his honey goblet fall

O'er the dear book, so pure, so white,
And sullied lines and marge and all!

In vain he sought, with eager lip,

The honey from the leaf to drink,

For still the more the boy would sip,
The deeper still the blot would sink!

Oh! it would make you weep, to see
The traces of this honey flood
Steal o'er a page, where Modesty
Had freshly drawn a rose's bud!

And Fancy's emblems lost their glow,
And Hope's sweet lines were all defaced,
And Love himself could scarcely know
What Love himself had lately traced!

At length the urchin Pleasure fled,

(For how, alas! could Pleasure stay?) And Love, while many a tear he shed, In blushes flung the book away! !