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This first false passion of his breast
He looked upon it earnestly,
THE APOLLO BELVIDERE.
Or view the Lord of the unerring bow,
And majesty, flash their full lightnings by,
But in his delicate form-a dream of love,
A ray of immortality—and stood
And if it be Prometheus stole from Heaven
One ringlet in the dust—nor hath it caught
ANACREONTIC SONG. Fill the goblet again ! for I never before Felt the glow that now gladdens my heart to its core ; Let us drink ! who would not ? since through life's
varied round In the goblet alone no deception is found. I have tried in its turn all that life can supply; I have basked in the beam of a dark rolling eye ; I have loved ! who has not ? but what heart can
declare That pleasure existed while passion was there? In the days of my youth, when the heart's in the spring, And dreams that affection can never take wing,
I had friends! who has not ? but what tongue will
That friends, rosy wine ! are so faithful as thou ? The breast of a mistress some boy may estrange, Friendship shifts with the sunbeam-thou never canst
change; Thou grow'st old; who does not ? but on earth what
appears Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years ? Yet if bless'd to the utmost that love can bestow, Should a rival bow down to our idol below, We are jealous ! who's not ? thou hast no such alloy, For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy. Then the season of youth and its vanities pass'd, For refuge we fly to the goblet at last ; There we find, do we not ? in the flow of the soul, That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl ! When the box of Pandora was opened on earth, And Misery's triumph commenced over mirth, Hope was left, was she not ? but the goblet we kiss, And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss. Long life to the grape ! for when summer is flown, The age of our nectar shall gladden our own; We must die, who shall not ? may our sins be forgiven, And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven.
ANAH'S INVOCATION TO HER ANGEL LOVER.
From thy sphere !
In the eternal depths of heaven
* The archangels, said to be seven in number.
Though through space infinite and hoary
Yet hear !
And though she nothing is to thee,
The bitterness of tears.
Except in love, and there thou must
Acknowledge that more loving dust
The face of him who made thee great,
Yet, Seraph dear!
Until I know, what I must die in knowing,
Her whose heart death could not keep from o'er. For thee, immortal essence as thou art !
[flowing Great is their love, who love in sin and fear;
And such, I feel, are waging in my heart
The hour is near
THE DEMON OF BATTLE.
Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note ?
Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc,
Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands,
For on this morn three potent nations meet, [sweet. To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most
PREPARATIONS FOR BATTLE.
Hark! through the silence of the cold, dull night,
The hum of armies gathering rank on rank! Lo! dusky masses steal in dubious sight
Along the leaguered wall and bristling bank Of the armed river, while with straggling light
The stars peep through the vapours dim and dank,