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LONDON PUBLISHED BY JOHN ARLISS 38 NEW GITE SIR EFT. 1813).

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SUBJECT OF THE PLATE,
FROM" LALLA ROOKH,BY T. MOORE, ESQ.

-No demon of the waste,*
No church-yard ghole, caught lingering in the light
Of the bless'd sun, e'er blasted human sight
With lineaments so foul, so fierce as those
The imposter now, in grinning mockery, shows-
“ There, ye wise saints, behold your light, your star,
“ Ye would be dupes and victims, and ye are.
" Is it enough? or must I, while a thrill ?
“ Lives in your sapient bosoms, cheat you still?

Swear that the burning death ye feel within, 6. Is but the trance, with which heaven's joys begin; “That this foul visage, foul as e'er disgraced “ E'en monstrous man, is-after God's own taste; 10

And that—but see-ere I have half-way said “My greetings through, the uncourteous souls are fled. “Farewell, sweet spirits ! not in vain ye die, “ If EBLIS loves you half so well as I. “ Ha, my young bride! 'tis well-take thou thy seat; “ Nay come---no shuddering---didst thou never meet “ The dead before ?---they graced our wedding, sweet! " And these, my guests to-night, have brimmed so true “ Their parting cups, that thou shalt pledge one too. “ But---how is this?---all empty? all drunk up? “ Hot lips have been before thee in the cup, “ Young bride---yet stay---one precious drop remains, “ Enough to warm a gentle priestess' veins ; — T “ Here, drink---and should thy lover's conquering arms “ Speed hither, ere thy lip lose all its charms, “ Give him but half this venom in thy kiss, “ And I'll forgive my haughty rival's bliss.

• The Afghauns believe each of the numerous solitudes and deserts of their country, to be inhabited by a lonely demon, whiom they call the Ghoolee Beeabau, or spirit of the waste,

TO HARRIET ANNE. I HAVE seen beauty and riches united,

And both failed to vanquish a heart, Whose wings being clipt, like a dove has alighted, To dwell where its first fondest vows had been plighted, In bliss which by falsehood alone can be blighted,

And which only exists where thou art! Life has long ceased to present me a token

By which I might fancy it dear; My hopes are all vanished, my heart is half broken, Thou alone art the vision whose beauty first woke in Its darkness a ray, which resplendently broke on

A bosom deserted and drear,
I have thirsted for fame--that thirst is now slaken,

Too long for such folly I strove;
Each empty ambition my heart has forsaken,
To sternest reality taught to awaken
A far other course all its feelings have taken,
And all that it values is love!

HILLARY HETHERINGTON, 31, Great Suffolk Street,

Nov. 27th, 1818.

TO HARRIET ANNE.
LONG had my infant fancy roved,

And sought the paths where beauty shone;
Had oft admired, but never loved,

Had dared to gaze, but ne'er was won.
With heart unwarmed, and pride unbent,

I walked the blooming garden through,
And scorned each fickle Poweret's scent,

And valued less its fleeting hue.
• Tis true that one delicious rose

So sweetly smiled, so fondly woo'd;
So shared my joys, so wept my woes,

That Love was born of Gratitude!
There came a storm, and we were parted,

The rose and I asunder torn,
Both wept - but neither broken-hearted,

Time-healed, full soon forgot to mourn

Yet to my mind 'twas more than sweet,

For many a succeeding year, The memory of lost love to greet,

And dew its tomb with sorrow's tear. 'Twas sweet because I had not seen

My Harriet's face of glowing love ; With virtue warm, with peace serene,

All other faces far above! Twas sweet because I had not known

The value of a heart so dear ; So sympathizing with my own,

So fond, so faithful, so sincere ! 'Twas sweet because my heart must love,

Or cease with loathsome life to beat, And therefore prized the chain she wove,

And therefore deemed her memory sweet. But thou hast torn away that chain,,

Hast spatched her memory from my mind; Hast given joy where she gave pain,

Where she proved faithless bast proved kind.
Where she was fickle, thou art fond,

Where she was trifling, thou art true,
Nor can there be a bliss beyond
What love can dare, and truth can do!

HILLARY HETHERINGTON, 31, Great Suffolk Street,

Nov. 1818.

TO A ***** DEAR youth for whom these orbs unceasing weep, For whom this wretched frame foregoes its sleep; Sole inmate of my sad but faithful breast, Return, return to thy forsaken nest! Ah know'st thou not my love is all thy own, That all my joys and hopes with thee are flown; That this fond heart beats only for thy sake, And, reft of thee, no other e'er can take? Ah, faithless youth ! as false as thou art fair, .Thy cruel absence drives me to despair !

But if thy eye should chance these lines to see,
And thus give rise to one kind thought of me;
If they can win once more thy fickle beart,
And fix it firmly-they have dune their part;
"Tis all I wish-and till that happy day,
Sighs, groans, and tears must have alternate sway..

DULCINEA. December 4th, 1818.

OH LIVE WITH ME AND BE MY LOVE.
In imitation of the Poets of Queen Elizabeth's days.

OH, live with me and be my love,
And tender will I ever prove;
In wealth or piving poverty,
Sweet lady fair I'd succour thee!
In sooth I know not how to woo,
But simply utter what I'd do;
Thy looks I'd watch to know thy will,
And learning it, I'd watch them still;
In health, in sickness, kind I'd prove,
Oh, live with me and be my love!

Oh, lady, better born than me
In humble tone do sue to thee;.
But when thy hand and heart they gain,
Ah me, they'll cause thee rueful pain!
Oh list 'not to the cunning tongue,
The learned clerk, or knights among ;
Bright gold and geer can they impart,
But can they soothe the pining heart?
In health, in sickness, kind I'd prove,
Oh, live with me and be my love!

Ah, gentle lady, huff me not,
What ihough mine's but an humble lot;
That, Heaven gave me, oft denied
To lofty rank, to pomp and pride,
The heart that dares its love reveal,
The tender heart e'er prompt to feel :
The soul that scorns tyrannic power,
Firm fortitude, for sorrow's hour:
In health, in sickness, kind I'd prove,
Oh live with me and be my love!

JEFFERY LLEWELLYN.

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