But when upon his outstretchil armé The sage affixil the plumy treasure. How did his swimming eyes expres His gratitude : his love, his pleasure!

Enraptured from the earth he sprung, And on the air's soft breast reclining

To realms of bliss he wing'd his way, Through skies with worlds resplendent shining.

There, with his blooming Genius blest, To Love each happy hour is given :'Tis extacy, 'tis rapture all,

'Tis more than can be thought of Heaven.

THE

ANNIVERSARY.

THO' the verdure of Spring is no more,
Tho' the zephyr has long ceased to sigh ;
Tho' the sunshine of Summer is o'er ;
Nor Autumn's gay tints glad the eye;
Tho' Winter o'er hill and o'er plain

His frost-spangled mantle has spread;
Tho' I feel him in every vein,

While his winds loudly howl round my head :

Yet I hail his return with delight,

My bosom with fresh passion glows;

A passion, whose flame burns more bright

And steals lustre and warmth from his snows:

For neither the zephyr of Spring,

Nor Summer's warm breath fann'd the fire,

And the Robin had long ceased to sing
Ere I felt the soft thrill of desire.

But 'twas when the bright icicle hung,
Where erst droop'd the heath's purple bell,
To the oak the last leaf faintly clung,

As e'en yet loth to take its farewell ;Yes 'twas then first my Sara I saw, Then first felt the beam of her eye, Whose brightness a hermit would thaw, And teach him with passion to sigh.

'Tis said that variety charms;

That one object can never long please;

But variety dwells in her arms,

But with life her attractions can cease:

Still, as oft as this time shall return,

Will she round my neck fondly twine?
Ah yes! that dear bosom will burn
With a passion as deathless as mine.

Irs

SONG.

filmy wing of azure hue

Lightly the fluttering insect plies,
Breathless the youthful train pursue,
But onward still the wanderer flies;

If one at length the prize obtain,
He thinks it fairer for his pain;—
So 'tis with Love.

What sweetens the poor peasant's sleep? What makes the warrior's laurel dear?

Why joy the heroes of the deep,

When first their native cliffs appear? Oh! 'tis the thought of dangers o'er

Gives present bliss to charm the more ;So 'tis with Love!

K