ON HIMSELF.

ON beds of tender myrtle leaves Where trefoil grass its carpet weaves, 'Tis the passion of my soul

To quaff the health-provoking bowl.
Love, his mantle thrown behind,
With the flag of Nile confin'd,
Shall near me ministering stand,

The heady goblet in his hand.
As the chariot-wheel rolls on,
Life runs, and, as it runs, is gone:
Soon to dust our bodies turn:

Our bones are crumbled in an urn.
What avails the perfume thrown
On cold earth, or on a stone?

While I live let odours flow:

Thick round my brows let roses blow: Call the mistress of my heart:

Love! ere yet I hence depart,

To join the dance of ghosts below,

I would scatter every woe.

THE ROSE.

LET us the rose of Love entwine

Round the cheek-flush'd God of wine: As the rose its gaudy leaves

Round our twisted temples weaves,

Let us sip the time away;

Let us laugh, as blithe as they.

Rose, oh rose, the gem of flowers! Rose, the care of vernal Hours!

Rose, of every God the joy!

With roses Venus' darling boy

Links the Graces in a round,

With him in flowery fetters bound.

With roses, Bacchus ! crown my head: The lyre in hand thy courts I'll tread: And, with some full-bosom'd maid, Dance, nodding with the rosy braid,

That veils me with its cluster'd shade.

A RACE WITH LOVE.

LOVE

a stem of hyacinth broke,

And smote me with a quick'ning stroke; And sharply urged my sluggish pace, And bade me run with him a race.

I ran o'er flood, and dell, and brake, But falter'd, bitten by a snake: My heart shrank inwards at the wound, In dying trance of faintness drown'd.

Love swift his tender pinions spread With fanning motion o'er my head: And whisper'd, leaning from above, "Ah! thou wilt never learn to love!"

A DREAM.

Ar midnight, when my slumb'ring head
Sank on the purple-quilted bed,

As wine its swimming rapture shed:
Methought I ran a tip-toe race
With gadding maids of frolic grace:
While youths, like Bacchus, fair and young,
Pursued me with reviling tongue

And keen their taunting envy flung.

When, as I sought to snatch a kiss, The vision fled-the sleep of bliss:

And, left alone, I felt in vain

The tort'ring wish to sleep again.

A LOVER'S WISH.

ERST, on the banks of Phrygia's flood,
Chang'd Niobe a statue stood:
Pandion's daughter, legends sing,
Rose flutt'ring on a swallow's wing:
But I thy mirrour, Sweet! would be,
That, gazing, thou might'st gaze on me.
Or worn for ever as thy vest,

Would clip thy shape, still closely prest:
Or as thy liquid bath would swim,
Soft rippling round each polished limb:
In fragrant oil, my girl! I'd flow
And glide o'er all thy skin of snow:
The sash thy bosom's orbs confining,
The string of pearls thy neck entwining:
Thy fine foot's sandal I would be,
So only thou would'st tread on me!