O place your hand upon my heart,
Feel how it throbs for you!
Ah no! reject the thoughtless claim
In pity to your lover!
That thrilling touch would aid the flame
It wishes to discover.
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Where graced with many a classic spoil
I haste to urge the learned toilThat sternly chides my love-lorn song:Ah me! too mindful of the daysIllumed by Passion’s orient rays,When peace, and Cheerfulness, and HealthEnriched me with the best of wealth.Ah fair Delights! that o’er my soulOn Memory’s wing, like shadows fly!Ah Flowers! which Joy from Eden stoleWhile Innocence stood smiling by!But cease,…
‘Tis true, Idoloclastes Satyrane !
And smiles with anxious looks, his earliest friends,Masking his birth-name, wont to characterHis wild-wood fancy and impetuous zeal,)‘Tis true that, passionate for ancient truths,And honouring with religious love the GreatOf elder times, he hated to excess,With an unquiet and intolerant scorn,The hollow Puppets of an hollow Age,Ever idolatrous, and changing everIts worthless Idols ! Learning,…
Why need I say, Louisa dear!
A lovely convalescent;Risen from the bed of pain and fear,And feverish heat incessant.The sunny showers, the dappled sky,The little birds that warble high,Their vernal loves commencing,Will better welcome you than IWith their sweet influencing.Believe me, while in bed you lay,Your danger taught us all to pray:You made us grow devouter!Each eye looked up and seemed…
Tho’ veiled in spires of myrtle-wreath,
And thro’ the clefts, itself has made,We spy the flashes of the Blade !But thro’ the clefts, itself has made,We likewise see Love’s flashing blade,By rust consumed or snapt in twain :And only Hilt and Stump remain.
Oft, oft, methinks, the while with thee
And dedicated bame, I hearA promise and a mystery,A pledge of more than passing life,Yea, in that very name of wife!A pulse of love that ne’er can sleep!A feeling that upbraids the heartWith happiness beyond desert,That gladness half requests to weep!Nor bless I not the keener senseAnd unalarming turbulence.Of transient joys, that ask no stingFrom…
O peace, that on a lilied bank dost love
I would that from the pinions of thy doveOne quill withouten pain yplucked might be!For oh! I wish my Sara’s frowns to flee,And faint to her some soothing song would write,Lest she resent my rude discourtesy,Who vowed to meet her ere the morning light,But broke my plighted word — ah! false and recreant wight.Last night…