sweetness here.

For much of loveliness must sleep,
E'en when inspir'd and led by truth;
The faithful pencil aims to keep
Mildness and innocence and youth.

XVI.

To MRS. A.

An Hour was before me, no creature more bright,
More airy, more joyous, e'er sprang on my sight.
To catch and to fetter I instantly tried,
And "thou art my slave, pretty vagrant," I cried.

I had hold, and securely I thought, of its wing,
O! how I shall glory, so lovely a thing
To place by the cradle of friendship, and see,
With the aid of my captive, if I can be free.

Oh! while she is with me, some means may be found
To temper the air and to hallow the ground--
To make those entangling bind-weeds decay,
Drive Suspicion, who rear'd them, for ever away,
And leave all around, kind, and healthful, and gay!

When this can be compass'd, I'll build me a bower,
And twine in the trellice each sweet-scented flower--
Rare, delicate plants, whose large, fresh leaves shall fling
Green shadows, where birds in the stillness may sing.

A place of repose, when the spirit is faint,
And the heart wants to utter a passing complaint:
Of safety; for pure and serene be the air,
And nothing unkind or unholy be there!

In this sacred retreat I my cares would confide,
And there my half-forming opinions should hide;
If true, gather strength for the brightness of day--
If false, in the shade, unreprov'd, die away!

How fondly I nourish'd these hopes, but in vain!
The calm and the stillness I could not retain;
My Hour fled away, every wish unfulfill'd,
And warm'd not the Friendship Suspicion had chill'd!

XVII.

LINES

_Sent to a Brother on his leaving England_.

May 2, 1816.

--------

FANCIFUL BOUQUET.

--------

_Hopes_ all glowing, _Wishes_ rare,
_Blessings_ mixed with many a _Prayer_,
Flowers as yet beyond compare,
Though flourishing in northern air.

_Farewells_ twined with tender _Fears_,
_Golden day-dreams_, gemm'd with tears,
_Affections_ nurtur'd many years,
Before this perfect bloom appears.

_Thoughts_ of fondness and of pride,
_Love-vanities_ we need not hide;
_Heart-blossoms_, in its crimson dyed,
For you, are here together tied.

And yet they all appear too poor,
Though goodness can ensure no more;
Though monarchs, whom the world adore,
Would purchase such with all their store.

And while this charmed gift we send,
We know where'er your footsteps bend,
The looks and tones