THE LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS.

ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

IF any white-wing'd Power above
My joys and griefs survey,

The day when thou wert born, my love—
He surely bless'd that day.

I laugh'd (till taught by thee) when told
Of Beauty's magic powers,

That ripen'd life's dull ore to gold,
And changed its weeds to flowers.

My mind had lovely shapes portray'd;
But thought I earth had one
Could make even Fancy's visions fade
Like stars before the sun?

I gazed, and felt upon my lips

The unfinish'd accents hang:

One moment's bliss, one burning kiss,

To rapture changed each pang.

And though as swift as lightning's flash
Those tranced moments flew,

Not all the waves of time shall wash

Their memory

from my view.

But duly shall my raptured song,
And gladly shall my eyes,
Still bless this day's return, as long
As thou shalt see it rise.

SONG.

Он, how hard it is to find
The one just suited to our mind;
And if that one should be
False, unkind, or found too late,
What can we do but sigh at fate,

And sing, Woe's me-Woe's me?

Love's a boundless burning waste,
Where Bliss's stream we seldom taste,
And still more seldom flee

Suspense's thorns, Suspicion's stings;
Yet somehow Love a something brings

That's sweet-ev'n when we sigh 'Woe's me!`

ADELGITHA.

THE ordeal's fatal trumpet sounded,
And sad pale ADELGITHA came,
When forth a valiant champion bounded,
And slew the slanderer of her fame.

She wept, deliver'd from her danger;
But when he knelt to claim her glove-
"Seek not," she cried, "oh! gallant stranger,
For hapless ADELGITHA'S love.

For he is in a foreign far land

Whose arms should now have set me free;

For him that's dead, or false to me."

Nay! say not that his faith is tainted!".
He raised his vizor-At the sight
She fell into his arms and fainted;

It was indeed her own true knight!

LINES

ON RECEIVING A SEAL WITH THE CAMPBELL
CREST, FROM K. M, BEFORE HER

MARRIAGE.

THIS wax returns not back more fair
Th' impression of the gift you send,
Than stamp'd upon my thoughts I bear
The image
of your worth, my friend!-

We are not friends of yesterday ;

But poets' fancies are a little Disposed to heat and cool, (they say,)By turns impressible and brittle.

Well! should its frailty e'er condemn
My heart to prize or please you less,
Your type is still the sealing gem,
And mine the waxen brittleness.

What transcripts of my weal and woe
This little signet yet may lock,-
What utterances to friend or foe,

In reason's calm or passion's shock!

What scenes of life's yet curtain'd stage
May own its confidential die,

Whose stamp awaits th' unwritten page,
And feelings of futurity!-

Yet wheresoe'er my pen I lift

To date the epistolary sheet,

The blest occasion of the gift

Shall make its recollection sweet;

Sent when the star that rules your fates Hath reach'd its influence most benign

When every heart congratulates,

And none more cordially than mine.

So speed my song-mark'd with the crest That erst the advent'rous Norman wore,

Who won the Lady of the West

The daughter of Macaillan Mor.

Crest of my sires! whose blood it seal'd With glory in the strife of swords, Ne'er may the scroll that bears it yield Degenerate thoughts or faithless words!

Yet little might I prize the stone,
If it but typed the feudal tree

From whence, a scattered leaf, I'm blown
In Fortune's mutability.