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Sweet lily of the dale,

The theme of ev'ry song!
Her charms shall still prevail

O'er all the youthful throng;
Still bright as morning dawn her lovely face ap-

pear:

Of life the balm,

She bears the palm;
Dear Fanny blooming fair !

No pleasure can I taste,

But pour the mournful strain;
My tedious hours I waste,

In sorrow, grief, and pain;-
For you, dear lovely maid, refuse to ease my care !

Oppre st with woes,

My life I close-
Dear Fanny blooming fair !

Slow Neath * shall seek the hills,

And leave th' extenkled main,
Its hoarse resounding rills

The towering Beacon + gain,
Tho' high o'er rolling clouds its lofty peak it

rear,

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A river in Glamorganshire. † A lofty mountain in Brecknockshire, so samed.

Whene'er I rove,

Or cease to love
My Fanny blooming fair.

Beneath those polar skies,

Where streams forget to flow;
Where icy mountains rise,

Wrapt in eternal snow ;-
Tho tempests round me rar'd, and shook the fri-

gid air;

With fond desire,

I'd strike the lyre
To Fanny blooming fair.

In all the blaze of day,

On Afric's utmost bound;
Tho' Phæbus noontide ray

Should parch the burning ground ;-
Tho' sick’ning nature droop 'mid scorching de-

serts bare ;

My song should be

Of love and thee,
Dear Fanny blooming fair.

Thou balmy Zephyr mild,

Breathe on the hawthorn pale...
Soft April's modest child,

That decks the flow'ry vale

And then each tender sigh, perfum'd with incense

bear

(Those sighs that prove

Unfeigned love-)
To Fanny blooming fair.

In softest whispers, speak

Her Poet's anxious pain :-
That faithful heart must break,

That long has sigh'd in vain !
For soon, without one smile to chase my deep

despair,

The yew-tree's gloom

Must shade my tomb-
Dear Fanny blooming fair !

SONG,

I danc'd with Harriet at the fair
And prais'd her for her jetty hair,
Which, like the tendrils of a vine,
About her brow in wanton twine,

Luxuriantly ran;
But why I prais'd her, sweet one, know,
Because I recollected, so
The tresses negligently flow,

About the cheeks of Anne.

One evening in the passion week,
When Lucy play'd at hide and seek,
Her black eyes shone, like glow-worms bright,
And led me by their sparkling light,

To find out where she ran;
But if I prais'd them, sweet one, know,
I recollected, even so
The black eyes sparkle, burn, and glow,

Of gentle mistress Anne.

Louisa's lips in kisses meet,
Like a twin-cherry, ripe, and sweet;
In Catherine's breath, rich perfume dwells;
But ah! how Julia's bosom swells,

To charm the gaze of man;
Yet if I praise them, sweet one, know,
They singly but remind me, so
Lips, breath and bosom I can show,

All blent in mistress Anne,

ODE FROM THE PERSIAN OF HAFAZ.

I have felt the sweet tortures of love,

Yet ask me not these to declare; Now the poison of absence I prove,

Yet ask me not this to declare.

fair ;

I have ransack'd the world thro' each part;

And at length have selected my
From each bosom, she steals every heart,

But her name ask me not to declare.

Her light footsteps, wherever she go,

With her ringlets perfuming the air, From my eyes tears of joy overflow;

'Tis a joy—ask me not to declare.

No later than yesterday night,
From her mouth, with which none can com.

pare,
I heard words of transcendant delight-

Yet those words--ask me not to declare.

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