Then far be all the wisdom hence,
And all the lore, whose tame control
Would wither joy with chill delays!
Alas! the fertile fount of sense,

At which the young, the panting soul
Drinks life and love, too soon decays!

Sweet Lamp! thou wert not form'd to shed Thy splendour on a lifeless page-Whate'er my blushing LAIS said

Of thoughtful lore and studies sage 'Twas mockery all-her glance of joy Told me thy dearest, best employ !*

only true voluptuousness, and avoided even the too lively agitations of pleasure, as a violent and ungraceful derangement of the senses.

* Maupertuis has been still more explicit than this philosopher, in ranking the pleasures of sense above the sublimest pursuits of wisdom. Speaking of the infant man, in his production, he calls him, "une nouvelle créature, qui pourra comprendre les choses les plus sublimes, et ce qui est bien au-dessus, qui pourra gouter les mêmes plaisirs.' See his Vénus Physique. This appears to be one of the efforts at Fontenelle's gallantry of manner, for which the learned President is so well ridiculed in the Akakia of Voltaire.

Maupertuis may be thought to have borrowed from the ancient Aristippus that indiscriminate theory of pleasures which he has set forth in his Essai de Philosophie Morale, and for which he was so very justly condemned. Aristippus, according to Laertius, held μη διαφέρειν τε ηδονην ηδονης, which irrational sentiment has been adopted by Maupertuis; "Tant qu'on ne considère que l'état présent, tous les plaisirs sont du meme genre," etc. etc.

And, soon as night shall close the eye
Of Heaven's young wanderer in the west,
When seers are gazing on the sky,
To find their future orbs of rest;
Then shall I take my trembling way,
Unseen but to those worlds above,
And, led by thy mysterious ray,
Glide to the pillow of my love.

Calm be her sleep, the gentle dear!
Nor let her dream of bliss so near;
Till o'er her cheek she thrilling feel
My sighs of fire in murmurs steal,
And I shall lift the locks, that flow
Unbraided o'er her lids of snow,
And softly kiss those sealed eyes,
And wake her into sweet surprise!
Or if she dream, oh! let her dream
Of those delights we both have known
And felt so truly, that they seem

Form'd to be felt by us alone!
And I shall mark her kindling cheek,
Shall see her bosom warmly move,
And hear her faintly, lowly speak

The murmur'd sounds so dear to love!
Oh! I shall gaze, till even the sigh,
That wafts her very soul, be nigh,
And when the nymph is all but blest,
Sink in her arms and share the rest!
Sweet LAIS! what an age of bliss

In that one moment waits for me!
Oh sages! think on joy like this,

And where's your boast of apathy!

TO MRS. BL-H-D.

WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM.

Τετο δε τι εστι το ποτον ; πλανη, έφη.

Cebetis Tabula.

THEY that Love had once a book,
say
(The urchin likes to copy you,)
Where, all who came the pencil took,
And wrote, like us, a line or two.

'Twas Innocence, the maid divine,
Who kept this volume bright and fair,
And saw that no unhallow'd line,

Or thought profane should enter there.

And sweetly did the pages fill

With fond device and loving lore, And every leaf she turn'd was still

More bright than that she turn'd before!

Beneath the touch of Hope, how soft,

How light the magic pencil ran!

Till fear would come, alas! as oft,

And trembling close what hope began.

A tear or two had dropp'd from Grief,

And Jealousy would, now and then, Ruffle in haste some snowy leaf,

Which love had still to smooth again!

But, oh! there was a blooming boy,
Who often turn'd the pages o'er,
And, wrote therein such words of joy,

As all who read still sigh'd for more;

And Pleasure was this spirit's name,
And though so soft his voice and look,
Yet innocence, whene'er he came,
Wouid tremble for her spotless book!

For still she saw his playful fingers
Fill'd with sweets and wanton toys;
And well she knew the stain, that lingers
After sweets from wanton boys!

And so it chanc'd, one luckless night
He let his honey goblet fall

O'er the dear book, so pure, so white,
And sullied lines and marge and all!

In vain he sought, with eager lip

The honey from the leaf to drink,
For still the more the boy would sip,
The deeper still the blot would sink!

Oh! it would make you weep to see
The traces of this honey flood
Steal o'er a page where Modesty
Had freshly drawn a rose's bud!

And Fancy's emblems lost their glow,
And Hope's sweet lines were all defac'd,
And Love himself could scarcely know
What Love himself had lately trac❜d!

At length the urchin Pleasure fled,
(For how, alas! could pleasure stay?)
And Love while many a tear he shed,
In blushes flung the book away!

The index now alone remains,

Of all the pages spoil'd by Pleasure, And though it bears some honey stains, Yet Memory counts the leaf a treasure!

And oft, they say, she scans it o'er,
And oft, by this memorial aided,
Brings back the pages now no more,

.

And thinks of lines that long have faded!

I know not if this tale be true,

But thus the simple facts are stated; And I refer their truth to you,

Since Love and you are near related!