LOVE's no irregular desire,

No sudden start of raging pain, Which in a moment grows on fire, And in a moment cools again: Not found in the sad sonnetteer,

That sings of darts, despair, and chains, And by whose dismal verse 'tis clear

He wants not heart alone, but brains.

Nor does it centre in the beau,

Who sighs by rule, in order dies; Whose ALL consists in outward shew, And want of wit by dress supplies. No; Love is something so divine,

Description would but make it less : 'Tis what we feel, but can't define; 'Tis what we know, but can't express. Weekly Amusement.


THE parent bird, whose little nest
Is by its tender young possess'd,
With spreading wings, and downy breast,
Doth cherish them with love;

But soon as nature plumes their wings,
And guides their flight to groves and springs,
Quite unconcern'd the parent sings,
Regardless where they rove.

But hapless we, of human race,
The lasting cares of life embrace,
And still our best affections place

On what procures us pain;
For children, as their years increase,
Increase our cares, and spoil our peace:
Paternal love can never cease,

But ever will remain.


Mary Goldsmith.


WHEN first this humble roof I knew,
With various cares I strove ;

My grain was scarce, my sheep were few,
My all of life was love.

By mutual toil our board was dress'd,
The spring our drink bestow'd;
But when her lip the brim had press'd,
The cup with nectar flow'd.

Content and peace the dwelling shar'd,
No other guest came nigh;

In them was giv'n, tho' gold was spar'd,
What gold could never buy.

No value has a splendid lot,

But as the means to prove That, from the castle to the cot,

The all of life is love.

Myrtle und Vine.



HAVE a silent sorrow here,
A grief I'll ne'er impart,

It breathes no sigh, it sheds no tear,
But it consumes my heart!

This cherish'd woe, this lov'd despair,
My lot for ever be ;

So, my soul's lord, the pangs I bear
Be never known by thee.

And when pale characters of death
Shall mark this alter'd cheek,
When my poor wasted trembling breath,
My life's last hope would speak―

I shall not raise my eyes to heav'n,
Nor mercy
ask for me;
My soul despairs to be forgiv'n,
Unpardon'd, love, by thee.



ONE April morn, reclin’d in bed,

Just at the hour when dreams are true, A fairy form approach'd my head, Smiling beneath her mantle blue.

"Fie, fie!" she cry'd, "why sleep so long, When she, the nymph you dearly love, Now roves the vernal flowers among,

And waits for you in yonder grove?

"Hark! you may hear her cherub voice:
The voice of Health is sweet and clear:
Yes, you may hear the birds rejoice
In symphony, her arbour near.”

I rose, and hasten'd to the grove,
With eager steps and anxious mind;
I rose the elfin's truth to prove,
And hop'd the promis'd nymph to find.

My fairy took me by the hand,
And cheerfully we stepp'd along;
She stopp'd, but on the new-plough'd land,
To hear the russet woodlark's song.

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