TO SOME YOUNG WOMEN.

GIVE me, damsels, give the bowl:
Let me slake in wine my soul:
Faint in noon my temples beat,
Gasping, sighing with the heat.

Give those flowers, that freshly breathe:
These, that now my forehead wreathe,
Scorch'd by sultry dews are dead,
With'ring round my burning head.
But, from heats of Love, what art
Now shall screen thee, oh my heart?

LOVE AND THE MUSES.

ONCE the Muscs met with Love:
In a chain they garlands wove;
And to Beauty's keeping gave
Their involuntary slave.

Venus gifts of ransom brought;
And poor Love's release besought.
Let them loose him, they who will:

Though released a prisoner still;
Freedom's tale is told in vain;

He has learnt to hug his chain.

VOL. I.

THE NEST OF LOVE.

DEAR Swallow! the soft season's guest,
Thou yearly weav'st thy summer nest;
But disappear'st in winter hours,
And fliest to Nile or Memphis' towers.
Love builds his nest within my heart,
But never once his wings depart.

Here young Desires, just trembling, spring,
And imp, scarce-fledg'd, the downy wing:
There in smooth egg unhatch'd are seen,
Or peep the breaking shell between:
And still the nestlings' chirps I hear,
For ever twitt'ring in mine ear.
The elder fondly rear their own;

The little ones are plumed and grown;
Build, in their turn, the procreant nest,
And brood and hatch within my breast.
Ah! what resource? what help? my cries

despair

To count the nestlings Love is rearing there.

RETURN OF SPRING.

SEE the spring appears in view;

The Graces showers of roses strew:
See how ocean's wave serene
Smooths its limpid, glassy green :
With oaring feet the sea-duck swims;
The stork on airy journey skims :
The sun shines out in open day;
The shadowy clouds are roll'd away;
The cultur'd fields are smiling bright
In verdant gaiety of light:

Earth's garden spreads its tender fruits;
The juicy olive swelling shoots;

The grape, the fount of Bacchus, twines
In clusters, red with embryo wines:

Through leaves, through boughs it bursts

its way,

And buds, and ripens on the day.

TO THE CICADA,

OR TREE LOCUST.

HAIL, Cicada! hail to thee
Nestling in the topmost tree:
Blithe as a king, the leaves among,
Sipping dew-drops, chirping song.
Thine are all things Nature yields
Midst the freshness of the fields:
Thine are all the buds and flowers

Scatter'd by the vernal Hours.

Peasants know their friend in thee;

Harmless of all injury:

Mortals honour thee with praise,
Prophet sweet of summer days.
In thee delights the Muses' throng,
In thee delights the God of song.
They bestow'd thy song-note shrill,

E'en in age unwearied still.

Wise in music, born of earth;

Lover of melodious mirth;