THE PROMISE.

TO HIS LOVE.

WHILE playfully sporting, I ventured to snatch A kiss from thy lips, dearest maid of my soul; And all Heaven's ambrosia itself could not match The ravishing sweetness of that which I stole.

Ah! 'twas not unpunish'd.-I suffer'd more pain Than the crucified wretch left to linger awhile. For pardon I sued; but not tears could obtain One accent of kindness, one favouring smile.

You scornfully cleansed from the lip I'd possess'd Every trace, every feeling by mine left behind; And wash'd it, as if by some profligate prest,

The foulest in person and basest in mind:

You sought every method to banish my bliss,

And Love the tormentor's rough duty embraced; Till all its ambrosia was lost to the kiss,

And 'twas bitter as bitterest hellebore's taste.

If this penance must follow each amorous slip, From such thefts I for ever an abstinence vow; For not even the sweetness I taste on your lip

Can repay me the anger that sits on your brow.

THE RITES AT HIS BROTHER'S GRAVE.

BROTHER, I come o'er many seas and lands
To the sad rite which pious love ordains,

To pay thee the last gift that death demands;

And oft, though vain, invoke thy mute remains: Since death has ravish'd half myself in thee, Oh wretched brother, sadly torn from me!

And now ere fate our souls shall re-unite,
To give me back all it hath snatch'd away,
Receive the gifts, our fathers' ancient rite

To shades departed still was wont to pay;
Gifts wet with tears of heartfelt grief that tell,

And ever, brother, bless thee, and farewell!

INVITATION TO CONFIDENCE.

TO CORNELIUS.

If e'er friend dared a secret impart

To the friend in whose faith he believed;

Or in any affectionate heart

Confided, and was not deceived:

Believe me, Cornelius, as just;

To secrecy's duties as true.

There needs but a friend who will trust

To make me Harpocrates too.

THE ALTERNATIVE.

TO SILO.

SILO, restore the sums I paid,

And lay aside the pandar's trade To seek an honest name:

Then practise every coarse affront, Be noisy, quarrelsome, and blunt; And I will nothing blame.

But if you venal pass your days, Then low obedience, servile praise, Must be your fitting mood.

A cheat and pandar must not wear Such rudeness as we scarce forbear

To censure in the good.