“A wretched sinful creature, I
      Deem’d lightly of that sacred tie,
      Gave to a treacherous WORLD my heart,
      And play’d the foolish wanton’s part. 
      Soon to these murky shades I came,
      To hide from the sun’s light my shame. 
      And still I haunt this woody dell,
      And bathe me in that healing well,
      Whose waters clear have influence
      From sin’s foul stains the soul to cleanse;
      And, night and day, I them augment,
      With tears, like a true penitent,
      Until, due expiation made,
      And fit atonement fully paid,
      The Lord and Bridegroom me present,
      Where in sweet strains of high consent,
      God’s throne before, the Seraphim
      Shall chant the ecstatic marriage hymn.”

      “Now Christ restore thee soon”—­I said,
      And thenceforth all my dream was fled.

* * * * *

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A MOTHER AND CHILD.

  CHILD
  O Lady, lay your costly robes aside. 
  No longer may you glory in your pride.

  MOTHER
  Wherefore to-day art singing in mine ear
  Sad songs were made so long ago, my dear? 
  This day I am to be a bride, you know,
  Why sing sad songs, were made so long ago?

  CHILD
  O mother, lay your costly robes aside,
  For you may never be another’s bride. 
  That line I learn’d not in the old sad song.

  MOTHER
  I pray thee, pretty one, now hold thy tongue,
  Play with the bridemaids; and be glad, my boy,
  For thou shalt be a second father’s joy.

  CHILD. 
  One father fondled me upon his knee. 
  One father is enough, alone, for me.

* * * * *

QUEEN ORIANA’S DREAM.

  On a bank with roses shaded,
  Whose sweet scent the violets aided,
  Violets whose breath alone
  Yields but feeble smell or none,
  (Sweeter bed Jove ne’er reposed on
  When his eyes Olympus closed on,)
  While o’erhead six slaves did hold
  Canopy of cloth o’ gold,
  And two more did music keep,
  Which might Juno lull to sleep,
  Oriana, who was queen
  To the mighty Tamerlane,
  That was lord of all the land
  Between Thrace and Samarchand,
  While the noontide fervor beam’d,
  Mused himself to sleep, and dream’d.

    Thus far, in magnific strain,
  A young poet soothed his vein,
  But he had nor prose nor numbers,
  To express a princess’ slumbers.—­
  Youthful Richard had strange fancies,
  Was deep versed in old romances,
  And could talk whole hours upon
  The Great Cham and Prester John,—­
  Tell the field in which the Sophi
  From the Tartar won a trophy—­
  What he read with such delight of,
  Thought he could as eas’ly write of—­
  But his over-young invention