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They speak of pleasure to the gay,

And wisdom to the wise ;
And soothe the poet's beating heart

With fame that never dies.

To virgins languishing in love

They speak the minute nigh; And warm consenting hearts they join,

And paint the rapture high.

In every language, every tongue,

The same kind things they say; In gentle slumbers speak by night,

In waking dreams by day.

Cassandra's fate reversed is theirs ;

She true, no faith could gain, — They every passing hour deceive,

Yet are believed again.

A U T U M N

A FRAGMENT.

FAREWELL the softer hours, Spring's opening blush
And Summer's deeper glow, the shepherd's pipe
Tuned to the murmurs of a weeping spring,
And song of birds, and gay enameled fields,

Farewell! 'Tis now the sickness of the

year,

Not to be medicined by the skillful hand.
Pale suns arise that like weak kings behold
Their predecessor's empire moulder from them;
While swift-increasing spreads the black domain
Of melancholy Night ;-no more content
With equal sway, her stretching shadows gain
On the bright morn, and cloud the evening sky.
Farewell the careless lingering walk at eve,

Sweet with the breath of kine and new-spread hay;

And slumber on a bank, where the lulled youth,

His head on flowers, delicious languor feels
Creep in the blood.

A different season now

Invites a different song.

The naked trees

Admit the tempest; rent is Nature's robe;

Fast, fast, the blush of Summer fades away

From her wan cheek, and scarce a flower remains

To deck her bosom; Winter follows close,

Pressing impatient on, and with rude breath

Fans her discoloured tresses.

Yet not all

Of grace and beauty from the falling year
Is torn ungenial. Still the taper fir
Lifts its green spire, and the dark holly edged
With gold, and many a strong perennial plant,
Yet cheer the waste: nor does yon knot of oaks
Resign its honours to the infant blast.

This is the time, and these the solemn walks,

When inspiration rushes o'er the soul
Sudden, as through the grove the rustling breeze.

TO THE BARON DE STONNE,

WHO HAD WISHED AT THE NEXT TRANSIT OF MERCURY TO FIND

HIMSELF AGAIN BETWEEN MRS. LA BORDE AND MRS. B.

In twice five winters more and one,

Hermes again will cross the Sun;
Again a dusky spot appear,
Slow-journeying o'er his splendid sphere :
The stars shall slide into their places,
Exhibiting the self-same faces,
And in the like position fix
As Thursday morning, eighty-six.
But changing mortals hope in vain
Their lost position more to gain ;-

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Once more between La Borde and me!

Ah, wish not what will never be !

For wandering planets have their rules,

Well known in astronomic schools ;

But life's swift wheels will ne'er turn back,

When once they've measured o'er their track.

Eleven years,—twice five and one, -
Is a long hour in Beauty's sun :
Those years will pilfer many a grace
Which decks La Borde's enchanting face ;
The little Loves which round her fly,
Will moult the wing, and droop, and die:
And I, grown dull, my lyre unstrung
In some old chimney corner hung,
Gay scenes of Paris all forgot,

Shall rust within

my

silent cot:

Life's summer ended, and life's spring,
Nor she shall charm, nor I shall sing.
Even Cook, upon whose blooming brow
The youthful graces open now,

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