As wretches feel who wait their doom; Nor must one ruder thought presume, Tho' but in whispers breath'd, to meet her ear.

It is to hope, tho' hope were lost; Tho' heaven and earth thy passion crost; Tho' she were bright as sainted queens above, And thou the least and meanest swain That folds his flock upon the plain,

Yet if thou dar'st not hope, thou dost not love.

It is to quench thy joy in tears;

To nurse strange doubts and groundless fears: If pangs of jealousy thou hast not prov'd, Tho' she were fonder, and more true Than any nymph old poets drew,

O never dream again that thou hast lov'd!

If, when the darling maid is gone,
Thou dost not seek to be alone,

Wrapt in a pleasing trance of tender woe,
And muse, and fold thy languid arms,
Feeding thy fancy on her charms,

Thou dost not love, for love is nourish'd so.

any hopes thy bosom share

But those which love has planted there,

Or any cares but his thy breast enthrall,
Thou never yet his power hast known;
Love sits on a despotic throne,

And reigns a tyrant, if he reigns at all.

Now if thou art so lost a thing,
Here all thy tender sorrows bring,

And prove whose patience longest can endure:
We'll strive whose fancy shall be lost

In dreams of fondest passion most;

For if thou thus hast lov'd, oh! never hope a cure.

SONG.

WHEN first upon your tender cheek

I saw the morn of beauty break

With mild and cheering beam,

I bow'd before your infant shrine,
The earliest sighs you had were mine,
And you my darling theme.

I

saw you in that opening morn

For beauty's boundless empire born,

And first confess'd your sway;

And ere your thoughts, devoid of art,
Could learn the value of a heart,

1 gave my heart away.

I watch'd the dawn of every grace,
And gaz'd upon that angel face,

While yet 'twas safe to gaze;
And fondly bless'd each rising charm,

Nor thought such innocence could harm
The peace of future days.

But now despotic o'er the plains
The awful noon of beauty reigns,

And kneeling crowds adore;
These charms arise too fiercely bright,
Danger and death attend the sight,
And I must hope no more.

Thus to the rising God of day
Their early vows the Persians pay,

And bless the spreading fire;

Whose glowing chariot mounting soon Pours on their heads the burning noon; They sicken and expire.

ELEANOR ANNE FRANKLIN,

Born died 1825,

The daughter of Mr. Porden, an architect, and wife of the enterprising Captain Franklin, wrote The Veils, or The Triumph of Constancy; Cœur de Lion, or The Third Crusade; and The Arctic Expedition.

Her best work is Cœur de Lion, in sixteen books. It bears in many passages the stamp of genuine poetry; but the taste of the day being decidedly against the epic style, its readers have been far from numerous.

From The Veils.

(Book V.)

Volcanoes seen by Night.

As slowly now descend the shades of night,
What glories burst on Leonora's sight!
Far to the left, the flame in flashes broke
Thro' the thick volumes of incumbent smoke
That shroud Vesuvio's head; before them far
The stronger flames of Stromboli appear,
Vulcano's sulphurous fumes, and Etna's brow,

Where crimson vapours tinge the eternal snow,
And all the heavens with awful beauty glow.

On lofty Stromboli the sky was bright,
As when it sparkles with the northern light,
And ever as the mountain hurled on high
Its mass of molten lava to the sky,
O'er all the isle the vivid lustre spread,
And brighten'd ocean with a glow of red;

Like distant thunder, burst a hollow sound, Disturb'd the quivering air, and shook the shores around.

From Cœur de Lion.

(Book XIII.)

Berengaria having assumed the Garb of a Minstrel, discovers Richard in the Castle of Trivallis.

FREED from the castle* ere the dawn of day,
The minstrel queen pursued her anxious way;
Scarce on the right-hand path one glance bestow'd,
But took, impetuous, the forbidden road.
Scarce could she still the beatings of her breast,
Or pause herself, or give her palfrey rest,

The castle of Count Maynard.