Sweet lily of the dale,

The theme of ev'ry song!
Her charms shall still prevail
O'er all the youthful throng;

Still bright as morning dawn her lovely face ap

pear:

Of life the balm,

She bears the palm;
Dear Fanny blooming fair!

No pleasure can I taste,

But pour the mournful strain;

My tedious hours I waste,

In sorrow, grief, and pain;—

For you, dear lovely maid, refuse to ease my care!

Opprest with woes,

My life I close

Dear Fanny blooming fair!

Slow Neath shall seek the hills,

And leave th' extended main,

Its hoarse resounding rills

The towering Beacon + gain,

Tho' high o'er rolling clouds its lofty peak it

rear,

A river in Glamorganshire.

+ A lofty mountain in Brecknockshire, so named.

Whene'er I rove,

Or cease to love
My Fanny blooming fair.

Beneath those polar skies,
Where streams forget to flow;
Where icy mountains rise,
Wrapt in eternal snow ;-

Tho tempests round me rav'd, and shook the fri

gid air;

With fond desire,

I'd strike the lyre

To Fanny blooming fair.

In all the blaze of day,

On Afric's utmost bound;

Tho' Phoebus' noontide ray

Should parch the burning ground;—

Tho' sick'ning nature droop 'mid scorching de

serts bare ;

My song should be

Of love and thee,

Dear Fanny blooming fair.

Thou balmy Zephyr mild,

Breathe on the hawthorn pale→→
Soft April's modest child,

That decks the flow'ry vale

And then each tender sigh, perfum'd with incense

bear

(Those sighs that prove
Unfeigned love-)

To Fanny blooming fair.

In softest whispers, speak

Her Poet's anxious pain :

That faithful heart must break,

That long has sigh'd in vain!

For soon, without one smile to chase my deep despair,

The yew-tree's gloom

Must shade my tomb

Dear Fanny blooming fair!

SONG.

I danc'd with Harriet at the fair
And prais'd her for her jetty hair,
Which, like the tendrils of a vine,
About her brow in wanton twine,
Luxuriantly ran;

But why I prais'd her, sweet one, know,
Because I recollected, so

The tresses negligently flow,

About the cheeks of Anne.

One evening in the passion week,
When Lucy play'd at hide and seek,
Her black eyes shone, like glow-worms bright,
And led me by their sparkling light,

To find out where she ran;

But if I prais'd them, sweet one, know,
1 recollected, even so

The black eyes sparkle, burn, and glow,
Of gentle mistress Anne.

Louisa's lips in kisses meet,
Like a twin-cherry, ripe, and sweet;
In Catherine's breath, rich perfume dwells;
But ah! how Julia's bosom swells,
To charm the gaze of man;

Yet if I praise them, sweet one, know,

They singly but remind me, so

Lips, breath and bosom I can show,

All blent in mistress Anne.

ODE FROM THE PERSIAN OF HAEZ.

I have felt the sweet tortures of love,
Yet ask me not these to declare;
Now the poison of absence I prove,
Yet ask me not this to declare.

I have ransack'd the world thro' each part; And at length have selected my fair; From each bosom, she steals every heart, But her name-ask me not to declare.

Her light footsteps, wherever she go,
With her ringlets perfuming the air,
From my eyes tears of joy overflow;
'Tis a joy-ask me not to declare.

No later than yesterday night,

From her mouth, with which none can com.

pare,

I heard words of transcendant delight

Yet those words-ask me not to declare.