TELL

ELL me no more of pointed darts, Of flaming eyes, and bleeding hearts, The hyperboles of love!

Be honest to yourself and me,
Speak truly what you hear and see,
And then your suit may move.

Why call me angel! why divine!
Why must my eyes the stars outshine!
Can such deceit prevail?

For shame! forbear this common rule, 'Tis low, 'tis insult, calls me fool: With me 'twill always fail.

Would you obtain my honest heart,
Address my nobler, better part;
Pay homage to my mind:

The passing hour brings on decay,]
And beauty quickly fades away,
Nor leaves a rose behind.

Let then your open manly sense
The moral ornaments dispense,
And to my worth be true:

So may your suit itself endear,
Not for the charms you say I wear,
But those I find in you.

I

[MRS. PILKINGTON.]

ENVY not the proud their wealth,
Their equipage and state;

Give me but innocence and health,
I ask not to be great.

I in this sweet retirement find
A joy unknown to kings;
For sceptres to a virtuous mind,
Seem vain and empty things.

Great Cincinnatus at his plough,
With brighter lustre shone,
Than guilty Cæsar e'er could shew,
Though seated on a throne.

Tumultuous days and restless nights,
Ambition ever knows,

A stranger to the calm delights

Of study and repose.

Then free from envy, care, and strife,

Keep me, ye powers divine;

And pleas'd when ye demand my life, May I that life resign.

་

DEAR is my little native vale,

The ring-dove builds and warbles there;
Close by my cot she tells her tale
To ev'ry passing villager.

The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,
And shells his nuts at liberty.

In orange groves and myrtle bow'rs,
That breathe a gale of fragrance round,
I charm the fairy-footed hours

With my loud lute's romantic sound;
Or crowns of living laurel weave
For those that win the race at eve.

The shepherd's horn at break of day,
The ballet danc'd in twilight glade;
The canzonet and roundelay,

Sung in the silent greenwood shade.
These simple joys that never fail,

Shall bind me to my native vale.

THE PRIMROSE.

[CAREW.]

SK me why I send you here,
This firstling of the infant year:
Ask me why I send to you,

This primrose all bepearl'd with dew;
I straight will whisper in your ears,
The sweets of love are wash'd with tears.

Ask me why this flower doth show
So yellow, green, and sickly too;
Ask me why the stalk is weak,
And bending, yet it doth not break;
I must tell you these discover

What doubts and fears are in a lover.

ON THE BATTLE OF SABLA.

[From the Arabic.]

[CARLYLE.]

SABLA, thou saw'st th' exulting foe

In fancied triumphs crown'd;

Thou heard'st their frantic females throw These galling taunts around :

"Make now your choice,-the terms we give,

"These fetters on your hands receive,

"Or in your hearts the spear."

"And is the conflict o'er," we cried,
"And lie we at your feet?
"And dare you vauntingly decide
"The fortune we must meet?

A brighter day we soon shall see,
Tho' now the prospect lowers,
And conquest, peace, and liberty
Shall gild our future hours.

The foe advanc'd :--i
--in firm array
We rush'd o'er Sabla's sands,
And the red sabre mark'd our way
Amidst their yielding bands.

Then, as they writh'd in death's cold grasp,
We cried, "Our choice is made,
These hands the sabre's hilt shall clasp,

Your hearts shall have the blade"