Be wise, thus seeking to be blest. 
When death shall take thee from her side,

To join the angelic choir above,
In heaven’s bright mansions to abide,—­
No diff’rence at the change thoult prove.

1767-8.
-----
The farewell.

[Probably addressed to his mistress Frederica.]

Let mine eye the farewell say,

That my lips can utter ne’er;
Fain I’d be a man to-day,

Yet ’tis hard, oh, hard to bear!

Mournful in an hour like this

Is love’s sweetest pledge, I ween;
Cold upon thy mouth the kiss,

Faint thy fingers’ pressure e’en.

Oh what rapture to my heart

Used each stolen kiss to bring! 
As the violets joy impart,

Gather’d in the early spring.

Now no garlands I entwine,

Now no roses pluck. for thee,
Though ’tis springtime, Fanny mine,

Dreary autumn ’tis to me!

1771.
-----
The beautiful night.

Now I leave this cottage lowly,

Where my love hath made her home,
And with silent footstep slowly

Through the darksome forest roam,
Luna breaks through oaks and bushes,

Zephyr hastes her steps to meet,
And the waving birch-tree blushes,

Scattering round her incense sweet.

Grateful are the cooling breezes

Of this beauteous summer night,
Here is felt the charm that pleases,

And that gives the soul delight. 
Boundless is my joy; yet, Heaven,

Willingly I’d leave to thee
Thousand such nights, were one given

By my maiden loved to me!

1767-8.
-----
Happiness and vision.

Together at the altar we
In vision oft were seen by thee,

Thyself as bride, as bridegroom I.
Oft from thy mouth full many a kiss
In an unguarded hour of bliss

I then would steal, while none were by.

The purest rapture we then knew,
The joy those happy hours gave too,

When tasted, fled, as time fleets on. 
What now avails my joy to me? 
Like dreams the warmest kisses flee,

Like kisses, soon all joys are gone.

1767-8.
-----
Living remembrance.

Half vex’d, half pleased, thy love will feel,
Shouldst thou her knot or ribbon steal;
To thee they’re much—­I won’t conceal;

Such self-deceit may pardon’d be;
A veil, a kerchief, garter, rings,
In truth are no mean trifling things,

But still they’re not enough for me.

She who is dearest to my heart,
Gave me, with well dissembled smart,
Of her own life, a living part,

No charm in aught beside I trace;
How do I scorn thy paltry ware! 
A lock she gave me of the hair

That wantons o’er her beauteous face.