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In such an hour-in such an hour,
In such an hour as this,

While pleasure's fount throws up a shower
Of social sprinkling bliss,
Why does my bosom heave the sigh
That mars delight ?-She is not by!
There was an hour-there was an hour
When I indulged the spell,

That love wound round me with a power
Words vainly try to tell ;-
Though love has fill'd my chequer'd doom
With fruits and thorns, and light and gloom-
Yet there's an hour-there's still an hour
Whose coming sunshine may

Clear from the clouds that hang and lour
My fortune's future day:

That hour of hours beloved will be
That hour that gives thee back to me!

LINES TO EDWARD LYTTON BULWER,
ON THE BIRTH OF HIS CHILD.

My heart is with you, Bulwer! and portrays
The blessings of your first paternal days;
To clasp the pledge of purest, holiest faith,
To taste one's own and love-born infant's breath,
I know, nor would for worlds forget the bliss.
I've felt that to a father's heart that kiss,
As o'er its little lips you smile and cling,
Has fragrance which Arabia could not bring.
Such are the joys, ill mock'd in ribald song,
In thought, ev'n fresh'ning life our life-time long,
That give our souls on earth a heaven-drawn bloom
Without them we are weeds upon a tomb.

Joy be to thee, and her whose lot with thine
Propitious stars saw truth and passion twine :
Joy be to her who in your rising name
Feels love's bower brighten'd by the beams of fame.
I lack'd a father's claim to her-but knew
Regard for her young years so pure and true,
That, when she at the altar stood your bride,
A sire could scarce have felt more sire-like pride.

SONG.

WHEN Love came first to Earth, the Spring
Spread rose-buds to receive him,
And back he vow'd his flight he'd wing
To heaven, if she should leave him.

But Spring, departing, saw his faith

Pledged to the next new-comerHe revell'd in the warmer breath

And richer bowers of Summer. Then sportive Autumn claim'd by rights An archer for her lover, And even in Winter's dark, cold nights A charm he could discover.

Her routs and balls, and fireside joy,

For this time were his reasonsIn short, young Love's a gallant boy, That likes all times and seasons.

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THE

POETICAL WORKS

OF

JAMES MONTGOMERY

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