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Gaze not, my friend, on Celia's

eye, Where thousand loves in ambush wait; Now, while thou canst, the danger fly,

Nor dare, like me, to tempt thy fate.

Those charms I view'd in luckless hour,

Awe struck, as Persians at the sun; My bosom own'd their instant power,

I did but look, and was undone.

So through the air with winged force

And deadly aim the bullet flies; Although unseen its trackless course,

The warrior feels it, and he dies.


Why thus decline my troubled eges,

If hither their mild lustre bending Those azure orbs to meet me rise? Why thus with thee conversing, dies,

My voice, in broken murmurs ending?

Yet, dawning from my looks distresty

Yet, wooing in the coy expression Of faultering sounds, that half-supprest In sighs ill stifled breathe the rest,

Read ah too dear! the fond confessions

In vain! what these soft tumults show,

From theę, yet new to love, is hidden; Untaught thy wishes yet to know, If sighs ascend, if blushes glow,

What means the sigh, the blush unbidden.

But hope not ever thus secure

To dart thy wildly-wandering glances:
What others now for thee endure,
Thou soon shalt feel in bloom mature ;

On hasty wing thy youth advances.

0, skilled in every graceful art

That adds a polish'a eharm to beantý; Be mine those pleasing cares t impart. Which best refine thc gentle heart,

Be mine to teach the tender duty!


Dearest, wouldst tliou but believe
A heart that knows not to deceive,

Alas! nor longer free:
That faithful heart should truly tell
The secret charm, the tender spell,

That bound it first to thee!

Tis not, that cradled in thine eyes
The baby Love, for ever lies

On couches dipt in dew,
'Tis not, because those eyes have won
Their temper'd light from April's sun,

From heav'n—their tints of blue!

Tis not, that o'er a bank of snow
Thy parted tresses lightly flow

In bands of braided gold;
Nor yet because the hand of Grace
Has form’d that dear enchanting face

In Beauty's happier mould.

No dearest, no—but, froin my soul,
It was a little smile that stole

The cherish'd sweets of rest,
And, ever since, from morn till night,
That little smile still haunts my sight

In dimples gaily drest.

E’en now, by Fancy's eyes are seen
The polish'd rows that break between

Two lips that breathe of May,
E’en now—but oh—by Passion taught,
Young Fancy forms too bold a thought

For timid love to say.

Yet, dearest, would'st thou but believe
A heart that knows not to deceive,

Alas! nor longer free ; 'Twould tell thee thou could'st ne'er impart A smile of thine to cheer a heart

More truly bound to thee!

'Twould beg, with a beseeching sigh, One glance from Pity's meaning eye

Its every pang to pay. 'Twould hint, perchance, at happier hours, When Hope may strew her fairy flowers

O'er life's bewilder'd way.

Yet, should my days in sorrow flow,
Nor Fortune's loitering hand bestow

A gle boon to me,
The frowns of Care I'd bravely meet,
And never deem my woes complete

Till banish'd far from thee!


With Fanny blooming fair,

Who still unrival'd reigns,
What virgin can compare,

Thro' all Siluria's plains !
Come, Cambrian bards, and wave a beauteous

chaplet rare,

Of sweetest flow'rs,

From Pindus' bow'rs,
For Fanny blooming fair.

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