* * * * *

  SONG.

  1 My days have been so wondrous free,
      The little birds that fly
    With careless ease from tree to tree,
      Were but as bless’d as I.

  2 Ask gliding waters, if a tear
      Of mine increased their stream? 
    Or ask the flying gales, if e’er
      I lent one sigh to them?

  3 But now my former days retire,
      And I’m by beauty caught,
    The tender chains of sweet desire
      Are fix’d upon my thought.

  4 Ye nightingales! ye twisting pines! 
      Ye swains that haunt the grove! 
    Ye gentle echoes! breezy winds! 
      Ye close retreats of lore!

  5 With all of Nature, all of Art,
      Assist the dear design;
    Oh teach a young, unpractised heart
      To make my Nancy mine.

  6 The very thought of change I hate,
      As much as of despair;
    Nor ever covet to be great,
      Unless it be for her.

  7 ’Tis true, the passion in my mind
      Is mix’d with soft distress;
    Yet while the fair I love is kind,
      I cannot wish it less.

* * * * *

  ANACREONTIC.

  When Spring came on with fresh delight,
  To cheer the soul, and charm the sight,
  While easy breezes, softer rain,
  And warmer suns salute the plain;
  ’Twas then, in yonder piny grove,
  That Nature went to meet with Love.

   Green was her robe, and green her wreath,
  Where’er she trod, ’twas green beneath;
  Where’er she turn’d, the pulses beat
  With new recruits of genial heat; 10
  And in her train the birds appear,
  To match for all the coming year.

   Raised on a bank, where daisies grew,
  And violets intermix’d a blue,
  She finds the boy she went to find;
  A thousand pleasures wait behind,
  Aside a thousand arrows lie,
  But all, unfeather’d, wait to fly.

   When they met, the dame and boy,
  Dancing graces, idle joy, 20
  Wanton smiles, and airy play,
  Conspired to make the scene be gay;
  Love pair’d the birds through all the grove,
  And Nature bid them sing to Love,
  Sitting, hopping, fluttering sing,
  And pay their tribute from the wing,
  To fledge the shafts that idly lie,
  And, yet unfeather’d, wait to fly.

   ’Tis thus, when Spring renews the blood,
  They meet in every trembling wood, 30
  And thrice they make the plumes agree,
  And every dart they mount with three,
  And every dart can boast a kind,
  Which suits each proper turn of mind.