still eve descending,
And soothe a mind with sorrow rending;
Ne'er may I see the blush of morrow,
But close this night the sigh of sorrow;

Then, if some wand'rer here directed
Shall find my mossy grave neglected,
May he replace the weed that's growing
With the nearest flow'r that's blowing!

IMPROMPTU LINES

UPON A VERY HANDSOME WOMAN

_Keeping the Hotel de Lion Blanc, at Dantzig_.

The sign of the house should be chang'd, I'll be sworn,
Where enchanted we find so much beauty and grace;
Then quick from the door let the _lion_ be torn,
And an _angel_ expand her white wings in his place.

LINES

UPON SEEING A BEAUTIFUL INFANT SLEEPING ON THE
BOSOM OF ITS MOTHER.

Upon its native pillow dear,
The little slumb'rer finds repose;
His fragrant breath eludes the ear--
A zephyr passing o'er a rose.

Yet soon from that pure spot of rest
(Love's little throne!) shalt thou be torn;
Time hovers o'er thy downy nest,
To crown thy baby-brow with thorn.

Ah! thoughtless! couldst thou now but see
On what a world thou soon must move,
Or taste the cup prepar'd for thee
Of grief, lost hopes, or widow'd love,

Ne'er from that breast thou'd'st raise thine head,
But thou would'st breathe to Heav'n a pray'r
To let thee, ere thy blossom fade,
In one fond sigh exhale thee there.

LINES

WRITTEN AT FREDENSBORG,

_The deserted Palace of the late Queen Dowager Juliana Maria_[A].

Bless'd are the steps of Virtue's queen!
Where'er she moves fresh roses bloom;
And, when she droops, kind Nature pours
Her genuine tears in gentle show'rs,
That love to dew the willow green
That over-canopies her tomb.

But, ah! no willing mourner here
Attends to tell the tale of woe:
Why is yon statue prostrate thrown?
Why has the grass green'd o'er the stone?
Why, 'gainst the spider'd casement drear,
So sullen seems the wind to blow?

How mournful was the lonely bird,
Within yon dark neglected grove!
Say, was it fancy? From its throat
Issu'd a strange and cheerless note;
'Twas not so sad as grief I heard,
Nor yet so wildly sweet as love.

In the deep gloom of yonder dell
Ambition's blood-stain'd victims sigh'd;
While Time beholds, without a tear,
Fell Desolation hov'ring near,
Whose angry blushes seem to tell.
Here Juliana shudd'ring died!

[Footnote A: This palace, called the Mansion of Peace, is in the road
and near to Elsineur; it was