THE BLUSH.

AN ENIGMA.

WHEN first o'er Psyche's angel breast
Love's infant wings undreaded play'd,
Of either parents grace possess'd,

My birth their secret flame betray'd.

No limbs my aëry charms obscure,

No bone my elfin frame sustains, Yet blood I boast, as warm, as pure,

As that which throbs in Hebe's veins.

I sleep with beauty, watch with fear,
I rise in timid youth's defence;
My gentle warmth alone can rear
The snow-drop buds of innocence.

Without a tongue, a voice, a sound,
My eloquence o'er all prevails;

I still in ev'ry clime am found
To tell my parent's tend'rest tales.

Love's sunshine, beam'd from brightest eyes,
Less cheers his vot'ry's painful duty,
Than my auspicious light, that flies
Like meteors o'er the face of beauty.

Spencer.

LINES

WRITTEN IN A GARDEN SEAT.

If mirth alone to thee be dear,
If sorrow ne'er thy heart refin'd,
If frolic youth thy bosom cheer,
And spirits light, and fortune kind:

No longer let thine eye peruse

What here inscrib'd thy glance may see; For I this artless verse would choose, Unmark'd by mortals blest like thee.

But, stranger, at the touch of pain
If e'er thy heart was doom'd to thrill,
If melancholy ever deign

To steep thy soul in slumbers still;

If harsh unkindness e'er for thee
Prepar'd that keen envenom'd dart!
Which tenderness can seldom flee,
And left it rankling in thy heart;

Thee would I greet in kindliest lay,

Would like thee that others mourn,

say

And chide thee soft, if chide I may,

And bid thee bear what I have born.

And tell thee, stranger, if to me

Thy sacred griefs had but been known, One heart, at least, had felt for thee,

And made thy sorrows all its own.

Smyth.

ODE TO FOLLY.

HAIL, goddess of the vacant eye!
To whom my earliest vows were paid,
Whose prattle hush'd my infant cry,
As on the lap supinely laid,

I saw thee shake, in sportive mood,
Thy tinkling bells and antick hood.

Source of the sweets that never cloy,
Folly, indulgent parent, hail!

Thine are the charming draughts of joy
That childhood's ruby lips regale ;
Thy hands with flowers the goblet crown,
And pour th' ingredients all thy own.

No fiery spirits enter there,

To rouse the tingling nerves to pain, Thy balmy cups, unbought with care, Swim lightly o'er the tender brain; Bland as the milky streams they flow, Nor leave the pungent dregs of woe.

Gay partner of the school-boy band,
Who charm'd the starting tear away,
What tho' beneath the pedant's hand
My flaxen head devoted lay,
Oft were my truant footsteps seen
In thy brisk gambols on the green.

Too soon those moments danc'd away; My years to manhood onward drew, And as my heart began to play,

My listless limbs more languid grew : For now a thorn disturb'd my rest, The wish of something unpossess'd.

At length with wonted pastime tir'd,
Aside the boyish toys I threw,
But when with expectation fir'd

I to the world's wide circle flew,
I look'd around with simple stare,
And found thee in broad features there.

There saw thee high in regal state,

Thy crowded, clam'rous orgies hold, With bounding hands thy cymbals beat, And wide thy tawdry flag unfold; Whilst thy gay motley liveries shone On myriads that begirt thy throne.

The devious path, sweet pow'r, I join'd: Thro' fancied fields of bliss we stray'd, A thousand wonders we design'd,

A thousand idle pranks we play'd: Now grasp'd at glory's quiv'ring ray, And now in Chloe's arms we lay.

But, Folly, why prolong my verse
To sing the laughter-loving age,
Or what avails it to rehearse

Thy triumphs on the youthful stage,
Where Wisdom, if she claims a place,
Sits ever with an awkward grace?

For now, e'en now, in riper years,
Smit with thy many-colour'd vest,

Oft I renounce my cautious fears,

And clasp thee to my thoughtless breast; Enough that in Presumption's mien Beneath my roof thou ne'er art seen.

That as my harmless course I run,
The world thro' candid lights I view,
And still with gen'rous pity shun

The moody, mopeing, serious crew;
Since what they fondly, vainly prize,
Is ever, ever to be wise.

V.