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Yes! that lyre has passed away,
The poëts hand is turned to clay ;
Yet perchance the sound still lingers,
Swept of old by Grecian fingers,
And the notes with softened power,
Thrill awhile through angels' bower,
Seeming in their sounds to vie
With that celestial melody,
That through the courts of heaven rang,
When angels and archangels sang

Their sacred minstrelsy.
Oh! sounds like those can never die,
They soar beyond mortality,
And borne along through boundless space,
Impart in turn or tears of sadness,
Or else a momentary gladness
To other worlds, where beings dwell,
Whose souls with answering motions swell,
While the strain of the music is hurried by,
As it floats on its way to eternity.

EPIGRAM.

The adorning thee with so much art,

Is but a barbarous skill,
'Tis but the poisoning of a dart,

Too apt before to kill,

IDEM LATINE.

Quid tam crudeli decoras ex arte capillos?

Ferro letali tetra venena paras.

TO ERINNA.
Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory;
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken ;
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the beloved's bed ;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

SUELLEY,

SUPER RIVULOS AQUARUM.

Casimir Epigram : Lib. I, 20. Errabam nuper vitreas prope Thybridos undas, ,

Quà solet ad scopulum naufraga lympha queri; Dicebam “ Mea lympha, meos lachrymeris amores,

“ Nam me jam lachrymæ destituere mee. O ego si possem fieri tam prodigus amnis,

“ Æternâ fuerem pulchra per arva fugâ”Hæc ego-sed tacitas suspendit lympha querelas;

In me mutari forsan et ipsa cupit.

TO MY SISTER,

About a seal engraved with a pen and a wreath.

Well pleased am I to recognize

The meaning of thy token,
Wherein the promise of a prize

Is classically spoken;
The omen suits my wish—the bay

Is what the pen achieves;
And at thy bidding, I'll assay

To earn its fragrant leaves.
But if you blame what I have writ,

And critic fingers press
My honour-wreath, (oh! do thou it

Alway in gentleness,)
Then-though it will not, must not die,

The bruised and drooping bough
Shall yield thine hand right gratefully

A scent it hath not now.

AD ERINNAM.

Mollis ubi exciderit dulcedo vocis, Erinna,

In memori vivax contremit aure melos;
Etsi tabuerint, violis tamen integer halat,

Qui semel accensis naribus hæret, odor.
Depereunte rosa, roseis tamen aptus amata

Sternitur e foliis congeriturque torus.
Atque tui, ut jaceas exstincta, superstitis inter

Ingenii flores ipse quiescet Amor,

IDEM ANGLICE,

Of late by Thyber's glassy waves I strayed,
Where the hoarse stream a rock-chafed murmur made,

And oh! do thou lament my loves,” said I;
My tears have failed me, for their source is dry-
“ Could I like thee, a stream exhaustless flow,
“For ever plaining through the fields, I'd go."
The moaning ceased—the stream ran silently,
As though with joy 'would change its lot with me.

AD SOROREM.

De sigillo calamum et coronam exprimente.

Anna, tui libet hortatus agnoscere doni;

Dulce mihi et votum laurus et omen habet,
Convenit optandæ laudi stylus-arma ministras

Sertaque, Musæus qualia captet amor.
Digna tuo scribam admonitu ; sed si mea quondam

Judicium culpâ presserit ausa tuum,
Tunc obtrita, (velim) quamvis marcescere nolit,

Laureola in lenes spiret odora manus.

RTON BUREAU.

AN APOLOGY.

1.

I know a heart, wherein the world

Sees little else than vanity-
Whose silken sail, if once unfurled,

Flaps weakly, to a stranger's eye.
As if 'twould have the billows curled
By sleepy breathings from the sky,

With no one by-
For self to ride on wantonly.

Oh world ! you know not how you wrong

That indolent adventurer-
How can you tell, but that ere long,

While you're away, the breeze will stir As with the loud Sun's matin-songWith voice of Nature's harbinger

With rush and whirr-
The white wings of that mariner ?

3.

Trust me, it will; that friend of mine

Is no mere random weather-drift, No gaudy cock-boat, shaped too fine

For voyages of thought and thrift;
For high aloft he bears a sign,
Which marks him for the winds to lift,

And by the gift
Of freshening love, he's strong and swift.

4.

That wilful heart is set about

With mimicries of scorn and sloth, Yet, by my word, I will not doubt

That he's at war alway with both;

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