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SONG.

To Love in my heart, I exclaim'd t'other morning, Thou hast dwelt here too long, little lodger, take warning;

Thou shalt tempt me no more from my life's sober duty,

To go gadding, bewitch'd by the young eyes of beauty. For weary's the wooing, ah! weary,

When an old man will have a young dearie.

The god left my heart at its surly reflections,
But came back on pretext of some sweet recollections;
And he made me forget, what I ought to remember,
That the rosebud of June cannot bloom in November.
Ah! Tom, 'tis all o'er with thy gay days-
Write psalms, and not songs for the ladies.

But time's been so far from my wisdom enriching, That the longer I live, beauty seems more bewitching;

And the only new lore my experience traces,
Is to find fresh enchantment in magical faces.
How weary is wisdom, how weary!

When one sits by a smiling young dearie!

And should she be wroth that my homage pursues

her,

I will turn and retort on my lovely accuser;

Who's to blame, that my heart by your image is haunted

It is you, the enchantress-not I, the enchanted. Would you have me behave more discreetly, Beauty, look not so killingly sweetly.

SONG.

How delicious is the winning
Of a kiss at Love's beginning,
When two mutual hearts are sighing
For the knot there's no untying!

Yet, remember, 'midst your wooing,
Love has bliss, but Love has ruing;
Other smiles may make you fickle,
Tears for other charms may trickle.

Love he comes, and Love he tarries,
Just as fate or fancy carries;
Longest stays when sorest chidden;
Laughs and flies when press'd and bidden.'

Bind the sea to slumber stilly,
Bind its odour to the lily,
Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver,

Then bind Love to last for ever!

Love's a fire that needs renewal
Of fresh beauty for its fuel;

Love's wing moults when caged and captured,
Only free, he soars enraptured.

Can you keep the bee from ranging,
Or the ring-dove's neck from changing?
No! nor fetter'd Love from dying,
In the knot there's no untying.

THE DEAD EAGLE.

WRITTEN AT ORAN.

FALLEN as he is, this king of birds still seems
Like royalty in ruins; though his eyes
Are shut, that look'd undazzled on the sun.
He was the sultan of the sky, and earth
Paid tribute to his eyry. It was perch'd
Higher than human conqueror ever built
His banner'd fort, where Atlas' top looks o'er
Zahara's desert to the equator's line:

From thence the winged despot mark'd his prey
Above the encampments of the Bedouins, ere
Their watchfires were extinct, or camels knelt
To take their loads, or horsemen scour'd the plain
And there he dried his feathers in the dawn,
Whilst yet the unwaken'd world was dark below.

There's such a charm in natural strength and power,
That human fancy has for ever paid
Poetic homage to the bird of Jove.

Hence, 'neath his image, Rome array'd her turms
And cohorts for the conquest of the world.

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