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For thou art warm, and something of a cheat.
Fragrant and fresh, an ornament most meet
For thee the rose whose beauty makes complete
Thy modest robe, and decks with petals red
Thy soft pure breast.

Ah, that thou wouldst thy humble servant treat
E'en like that flower, so envied in its seat !
Then where it lies I too might lay my head,
Thy delicate arms all fondly round me spread,
And feel against my check with rapture beat
Thy soft pure breast.

III.

THE LOAN.

"YET awhile, ah, prithee stay ;

One more kiss to those thou 'st given :
Who shall promise us we may
Meet again this side of Heaven?

"Rapture! Since thou art so kind,
Grudge not what thou hast in plenty.
Five yet there are more behind.
Ten come, make the number twenty."

Given they were, and one by one,
Given with gust; and then we parted.
But, ere twice ten steps she 'd gone,

Back she turn'd to whence she 'd started ;

Back she turn'd to where I stood,
Watching her lov'd form receding;
Then the jade in frolic mood,
With her grace of native breeding,

Closing half her eyes' broad lid,
Which and night but ill were screening
Smile and blush that rose unbid,
Curtsying, thus express'd her meaning:

"Ere we part, my loan repay; Give me back what I have given : Who shall promise us we may

Meet again this side of Heaven?

IV.

STANCES.

VOULANT dissimuler l'ardeur

De sa tendresse,

IRIS montre de la hauteur.
Quelle faiblesse !

Cet effort pour se dégager
De dessous l'onde

Dit qu' IRIS ne sait pas nager
Dans l'eau profonde.

Mais ce qui me semble plus sot,
IRIS est sûre,

Non qu'elle payé un juste impôt
De la Nature,

En donnant à sa cruauté

Pleine carrière,

Mais que c'est à sa volonté
Elle est altière.

Écoute, IRIS: Ce faux semblant,

De votre sexe,

Tandis qu'il dompte, en l'agaçant,
Le cœur qu'il vexe,

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DEDICATED TO THE AUTHOR OF "LYRICAL BALLADS."

Ir was the hour that follows the first dawn.
I at my window, which did overlook
The dusty street, and not a shadowy lawn,
Did sit reclin'd. Before me was no book,

Nor pen, nor paper; for I had not quit
My single bed that morning in a fit
Of studious musing, being not inclin'd
To such a painful moiling of the wit,
Nor caring, for the tillage of the mind,
To yoke my body to fatigue and pain ;
But simply for that I had found it vain
To keep my perch much longer than the cocks,
The bugs did bite so, and had restless lain
Since midnight, and had counted all the clocks,
One, two, three, four, five, six, - a weary chime
To him who 'd hasten or would keep back Time.
And then the sultry heat ('t was August now,)
And the moschetoes' querulous, drowsy drone,
Were quite sufficient, in themselves alone,
To chase all slumber from my aching brow.
The neighbours were not stirring, - happy hearts!
I envy'd them their fasten'd shutters, and
The streets scarce echoed to the passing carts,
So few between, nor yet the shopman's stand
Display'd its stockfish, herrings, eggs, and plums,
Nor rose from frequent throngs their busy hums.
Dust too was on the unbesom'd flags, and here
A dead segar, which boys "old so'dier " call,
Lay cooly by an orange-rind, and near,

Shut in betwixt a housedoor and a wall,
Were still less seemly signs of vulgar cheer
And riot, which the sons of Belial leave,

When, reeling clamorous through the streets by night,
Their watching mothers' hearts they sorely grieve,
And give to waken'd sleepers small delight.

As I did loll, with nightcap on my poll, And felt much wrath awaken in my soul, That people should not be compell'd to rise And make their doors more fit for neighbours' eyes, Loud shouts and laughter suddenly did ring

Full pleasantly on my vibrating ear.

"Ah ha!" I said, "there be some few, 't is clear, That properly their children up do bring

To rise betimes; for sure this jocund noise
Is childhood's laughter and the shout of boys."

I forward lean'd, and straightway did espy
What made these little men so gayly cry.
Around the corner of a street in view,
There came a little negro, a male child;
And after him three other boys defil'd

That seem'd that sooty urchin to pursue.
Much larger they than he, yet children too.
And as they ran behind him,
it did seem,
Not for to catch him, but to keep in sight,-
They laugh'd so hard, that I did really deem
Their little bellies all would burst outright.
Not so the hunted one: his cheeks were wet
With his eyes' rain, that down was pouring yet.
And shone like some black bottle, ere its jet
Is with the dust of generations coated,
Or closely netted over by some bloated
Industrious spinner of the vault. His voice
Too rung not out as those that do rejoice,
But with pure grief, and terror, and despite.
Behind him 'neath his jacket something white

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