TO THE SAME.
ON LOOKING THROUGH HER ALBUM.
No wonder bards, both high and low,
From Byron down to ***** and me,
Should seek the fame which all bestow
On him whose task is praising thee.
Let but the theme be Jersey's eyes,
At once all errors are forgiven;
As even old Sternhold still we prize,
Because, tho' dull, he sings of heaven.
AT NIGHT.[1]
At night, when all is still around.
How sweet to hear the distant sound
Of footstep, coming soft and light!
What pleasure in the anxious beat,
With which the bosom flies to meet
That foot that comes so soft at night!
And then, at night, how sweet to say
"'Tis late, my love!" and chide delay,
Tho' still the western clouds are bright;
Oh! happy, too, the silent press,
The eloquence of mute caress.
With those we love exchanged at night!
[1] These lines allude to a curious lamp, which has for its device a
Cupid, with the words "at night" written over him.
TO LADY HOLLAND.
ON NAPOLEON'S LEGACY OP A SNUFF-BOX.
Gift of the Hero, on his dying day,
To her, whose pity watched, for ever nigh;
Oh! could he see the proud, the happy ray,
This relic lights up on her generous eye,
Sighing, he'd feel how easy 'tis to pay
A friendship all his kingdoms could not buy.
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