hall thou be,
Fair mourner! and her sympathy
Is thine; for, in the war's alarms,
Thou gav'st thine hero from thine arms;
And only ask'd to sigh alone,
To look to heav'n, and weep him gone.
Oh! soon shall all thy sorrow cease,
And, to thine aching bosom, peace
Shall quick return;--another tear
To love and joy, supremely dear,
Shall give thy gen'rous mind relief--
That tear shall gem the laurel leaf.

LINES

TO MISS ----,

ACCOMPANIED BY A ROSE AND A LILY.

I look'd the fragrant garden round
For what I thought would picture best
Thy beauty and thy modesty;
A lily and a rose I found,--
With kisses on their leaves imprest,
I send the beauteous pair to thee.

SONG.

Nature's imperfect child, to whom
The world is wrapt in viewless gloom,
Can unresisted still impart
The fondest wishes of his heart.

And he, to whose impervious ear
The sweetest sounds no charms dispense,
Can bid his inmost soul appear
In clear, tho' silent, eloquence.

But we, my Julia, not so blest,
Are doom'd a diff'rent fate to prove,--
To feel each joy and hope supprest
That flow from pure, but hidden, love.

IMPROMPTU LINES,

UPON ANACREON MOORE'S SAYING THAT HE DISLIKED
SINGING TO MEN.

By Beauty's caresses, like Cupid, half-spoil'd,
Thus Music's and Poesy's favourite child
Exclaim'd,--"'Tis, by Heaven! a terrible thing
Before a _he_-party to sit and to sing!"
"By my shoul! Master Moore, you there may be right,"
Said a son of green Erin; "tho' dear to my sight
Are all the sweet cratures, call'd women, I swear,
Yet I think we can feel just as well as the fair:
Tho' you'd bribe us with songs, blood and 'ounds! let me say,
I'd not be a woman for one in your way."

LINES TO JULIA.

Tho', Julia, we are doom'd to part,
Tho' unknown pangs invade this heart,
For thee the light of love shall burn,
To thee my soul in secret turn:
Upon this bosom, swell'd with care,
The thought of thee shall tremble there
'Till Time shall close these weeping eyes,
And close the soothing source of sighs.
So, in the silence of the night,
Shines on the wave the lunar light;
With its soft image, bright, imprest,
It heaves, and seems to know no rest:
Its agitation soon is o'er;
It sighs, and dies along the shore!

LINES

_To the Memory of Mrs. A.H. Holdsworth_,

LATE OF MOUNT GALPIN, DEVONSHIRE.

Tyrant of all our loves and friendships here,
Behold thy beauteous victim!--Ah! tis