And were but you and Clair - so lov'd, rever'd
And Emma here, how were the scene endear'd!
But Seymour has no soul - I've known it long:
A common cipher in the vulgar throng.

He eats and drinks, and talks and sleeps; and then,
Like Prior's pair, eats, drinks, and sleeps again.
I've watch'd him eye the glory of a wood,

The giant oak that has for ages stood;

Sublime, if aught on earth sublime can be;

Then measure with his handkerchief its girth,
And pause awhile to calculate the worth!
But there is one, one only, I have met,
Who, scorning forms of chilling etiquette,
Seems, with a glance, to look into my breast,
And feels each object with a kindred zest.
While Seymour, yawning, turns the vapid page,
The scene around us is a wond'rous stage,
Where stalk the mighty dead of ev'ry age.
Oft on her lip dear Emma's smile I see,

And what Sophia is, will Emma be.

But there is grace, majestic grace, beside,

That, but for softer charms, might seem to verge on pride.

The head with gentlest curve declin'd; the eye,

When slowly rais'd, of such benignity!

Too seldom rais'd; but if perchance it meet

Your own, the glance how timid sweet!

Dear Emma's easy converse would impart
Delight to every friend so void of art

Sophia's silence seems to touch the heart.
There is a spot we like enchantment feel,
And there, unconsciously almost, we steal.
'Tis in a little nook, beneath a hill,

Where gushes, crystal-clear, a narrow rill.

Two chisel'd stones, white as the new-fall'n snow,
Impede its course, and bid it gurgling flow:
Remnant, perhaps, of some delicious bath,

Where stole the Beauty through her shaded path.
The moss, that carpets thick a gentle mound,
In patches yields to wild-flowers clust'ring round.
The gentian there, in rich profusion seen,
With purple bells embroiders half the green.
This is our mutual seat; and o'er our heads
A leaning ash its light-wing'd foliage spreads;
While, through a little wood that skirts the knoll,

From this one spot we catch the Capitol;

By distance lovelier made: no art can paint

The soften'd lightness of that outline faint.

Here we impart our thoughts, which strangely meet, Or muse perhaps, in silence doubly sweet.

She, her good Mother old and feeble grown,

Must taste, if taste at all, such scenes alone,
But that, by happy accident, I found

A lovely sketch, forgotten, on the ground,

That, to its owner brought, the wizard prov'd, Whose potent touch the heavy drawbridge mov'd,

By giant Custom planted, to secure

Each innocent approach to woman pure.

EUGENIA TO FREDERIC.

CHILD of my heart! what language shall I find

To paint the fears that agitate my mind?

The morning dawn has streak'd th' awak'ning skies,

Ere, wearied out at last, I close my eyes.
Guileless thyself, from all suspicion free,
It asks small art to cover art from thee.

But boundless trust to weak delusion leads:

E'en virtues may degenerate to weeds.

Said not those lips which error could not move, "Wise as the serpent, harmless as the dove?" Then hear the voice of Prudence - let her plead Nor rashly dare th' irrevocable deed.

Who is Sophia? She, it seems, defies

Customs long hallow'd by the good and wise.

Who breaks these barriers, too, too much, I fear,

More sacred laws disclaims she rests not here.

'Tis not to gild the summer of his days,

At wit to marvel, or on beauty gaze,

At least not these alone the wise man seeks

That holy tie that but with being breaks:
Patient, meek, pious, calm, the Christian Wife
Smooths with her smile th' asperities of life:

His youth's mild counsellor, his age's friend,
His, and his children's good, her aim and end;
To that her hopes aspire, and all her labours tend.

Think you Sophia, charming as she is,

Form'd in domestic scenes to find her bliss?

It looks not well a mother's home to quit,

(She old and feeble) by thy side to sit!

Mark if, when present, to her will she bends ;
Learn if respected her companions, friends:

And O! from Latium's animating lore

Turns she erewhile the Christian's hopes t' explore?
Wretched the offspring who derive their birth

From her whose grov'ling thoughts are chain'd to earth;
Who sees not, or permits Sin's growing weed,
Nor plants, nor waters Piety's pure seed!

Far, far, my Fred'ric, be such wife from thee!
Haste then to say thy hand and heart are free.

FREDERIC TO EUGENIA.

Too late! too late! my doom is seal'd; and now Pray, pray that Heav'n may bless the hasty vow! Ere those pure precepts to my hand were giv'n, That hand was plighted in the sight of Heav'n. But' sweet Sophia, if she be not all

That prudent age might strict and perfect call,