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Fated to ills beyond redress,

We must endure our woe;
The days allowed us to possess,

'Tis madness to forego.

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I

THE SYMPTOMS OF LOVE.
TOULD my Delia know if I love, let her take
My last thought at night and the first when I

wake;
When my prayers and best wishes preferred for her sake.
Let her guess what I muse on, when rambling alone
I stride o'er the stubble each day with my gun,
Never ready to shoot till the covey is flown.
Let her thi what odd whimsies I have in my brain,
When I read one page over and over again,
And discover at last that I read it in vain.

Let her say why so fixed and so steady my look,
Without ever regarding the person who spoke,
Still affecting to laugh, without hearing the joke.
Or why when with pleasure her praises I hear
(That sweetest of melody sure to my ear),
I attend, and at once inattentive appear.
And lastly, when summoned to drink to my flame,
Let her guess why I never once mention her name,
Though herself and the woman I love are the same.

At Berkhampstead. WRITTEN AFTER LEAVING HER AT NEW

BURNS.

H

OW quick the change from joy to woe!
Seldom we view the prospect fair,
Dark clouds of sorrow, pain, and care
(Some pleasing intervals between),
Scowl over more than half the scene.
Last week with Delia, gentle maid,
Far hence in happier fields I strayed,
While on her dear enchanting tongue
Soft sounds of grateful welcome hung,
For absence had with held it long.
Welcome, my long-lost love,” she said,
“E'er since our adverse fates decreed
That we must part, and I must mourn
Till once more blessed by thy return,
Love, on whose influence I relied
For all the transports I enjoyed,
Has played the cruel tyrant's part,
And turned tormentor to my heart.
But let me hold thee to my breast,
Dear partner of my joy and rest,
And not a pain, and not a fear,
Or anxious doubt shall enter there."
Happy, thonght I, the favoured youth,
Blessed with such undissembled truth!
Five suns successive rose and set,
And saw no monarch in his state,
Wrapped in the blaze of majesty,
So free from every care as I.

Next day the scene was overcast;
Such day till then I never passed.
For on that day, relentless fate !
Delia and I must separate.
Yet ere we looked our last farewell,
From her dear lips this comfort fell :
“ Fear not that time, where'er we rove,
Or absence, shall abate my love."
And can I doubt, my charming maid,
As unsincere what you have said ?
Banished from thee to what I hate,
Dull neighbours and insipid chat,
No joy to cheer me, none in view,
But the dear hope of meeting you ;
And that through passion's optic seen,
With ages interposed between;
Blessed with the kind support you give,
'Tis by your promised truth I live;
How deep my woes, how fierce my flame,
You best may tell, who feel the same.

A

R. S. S.
LL-WORSHIPPED Gold! thou mighty

mystery!
Say by what name shall I address thee, rather,
Our blessing or our bane? Without thy aid,
The generous pangs of pity but distress
The human heart, that fain would feel the bliss
Of blessing others; and, enslaved by thee,
Far from relieving woes which others feel,
Misers oppress themselves. Our blessing then
With virtue when possessed; without, our bane.
If in my bosom unperceived there lurk
The deep-sown seeds of avarice or ambition,
Blame me, ye great ones (for I scorn your ce

censure),
But let the generous and the good commend ine;
That to my Delia I direct them all,
The worthiest object of a virtuous love.
Oh! to some distant scene, a willing exile
From the wild uproar of this busy world,
Were it my fate with Delia to retire ;
With her to wander through the sylvan shade,
Each morn, or o'er the moss-in browned turf,
Where, bless'd as the prime parents of mankind
In their own Eden, we would envy none;
But, greatly pitying whom the world calls happy,
Gently spin out the silken thread of life;
While from her lips attentive I receive
The tenderest dictates of the purest flame,
And from her eyes (where soft complacence sits
Illumined with radiant beams of sense),
Tranquillity beyond a monarch's reach.
Forgive me, Heaven, this only avarice
My soul indulges ; I confess the crime
(If to esteem, to covet such perfection
Be criminal). Oh grant me Delia ! grant me wealth,
Wealth to alleviate, not increase my wants ;
And grant me virtue, without which nor wealth
Nor Delia can avail to make me blessed.

WRITTEN IN A FIT OF ILLNESS.

R. S. 8.

N these sad hours, a prey to ceaseless pain,

When each faint breath the last short effort seems

Of life just parting from my feeble limbs ;
How wild soe'er my wandering thoughts may be,
Still, gentle Delia, still they turn on thee !
At length if, slumbering to a short repose,
A sweet oblivion frees me from my woes,
Thy form appears, thy footsteps I pursue,
Through springy vales, and meadows washed in dew;
Thy arm supports me to the fountain's brink,
Where by some secret power forbid to drink,
Gasping with thirst, I view the tempting flood
That flies my touch, or thickens into mud ;
Till thine own hands immerged the goblet dips,
And bears it streaming to my burning lips.
There borne aloft on fancy's wing we fly,
Like souls embodied to their native sky;
Now every rock, each mountain disappears :
And the round earth an even surface wears ;
When lo ! the force of some resistless weight
Bears me straight down from that pernicious height;
Parting, in vain our struggling arms we close ;
Abhorred forms, dire phantoms interpose ;
With trembling voice on thy loved name I call;
And gulfs yawn ready to receive my fall.
From these fallacious visions of distress
I wake; nor are my real sorrows less.
Thy absence, Delia, heightens every ill,
And gives e'en trivial pains the power to kill.
Oh ! wert thou near me ; yet that wish forbear !
'Twere vain, my love, —'twere vain to wish thee near ;
Thy tender heart would heave with anguish too,
And by partaking, but increase my woe.
Alone I'll grieve, till gloomy sorrow past,
Health, like the cheerful day-spring, comes at last-
Comes fraught with bliss to banish every pain,
Hope, joy, and peace, and Delia in her train i

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