TO LOVE.

THE COMPLAINT.

FROM GESSNER.

Ан, love! upon the first of May

To thee I rais'd an altar gay

Within the garden's fairest bound,

With myrtles and with roses crown'd;
And there each morn's returning light,
A garland hung with dew-drops bright.
Alas! my toil was all in vain,

Fruitless my anxious care and pain;
The flow'rs from every tree are torn,

The garden's desert and forlorn,

By raging of the wintry wind;

And Phillis too is still unkind;
Unkind as on the first of May,

And all my labour's thrown away.

I. H. B.

SONNET

FROM THE ITALIAN OF FRANCESCO REDI.

IN wonted majesty and court severe

Love held his solemn parliament of late,

While guards, accustom'd to awaken fear,
Around the iron gates attentive wait.

Upon a trophied throne his arrows rear'd,

Sublime in proud magnificence he rode;

Death at his side with dire Mischance appear'd,

And Sighs, and Tears, and Grief, had there abode.

I there was dragg'd, a wretched pris'ner made,
And Love no sooner fix'd on me his eyes,

Than loud, and fierce, and pitiless he cries!
Opening his pouting lips he sternly said,
"Let him the rigour of our empire prove:"

And Fate inscrib'd the stern decree of Love.

. I. H. B.

STANZAS

ΤΟ

ON LEAVING ENGLAND.

'Tis done and shivering in the gale

The bark unfurls her snowy sail;

And whistling o'er the bending mast

Loud sings on high the fresh'ning blast;

And I must from this land begone,

Because I cannot love but one.

But could I be what I have been,

And could I see what I have seen,

Could I repose upon the breast

Which once my warmest wishes blest,

I should not seek another zone

Because I cannot love but one.

'Tis long since I beheld that eye

Which gave me bliss or misery;

And I have striven, but in vain,

Never to think of it again;

For tho' I fly from Albion

I still can only love but one.

As some lone bird without a mate,

My weary heart is desolate;

I look around, and cannot trace

One friendly smile or welcome face;

And e'en in crowds am still alone,

Because I cannot love but one.

And I will cross the whit'ning foam,

And I will seek a foreign home,

Till I forget a false fair face,

I ne'er shall find a resting place;

My own dark thoughts I cannot shun,

But ever love, and love but one.

The poorest, veriest wretch on earth

Still finds some hospitable hearth,

Where friendship's or love's softer glow

May smile in joy or soothe in woe;

But friend or lover I have none,

Because I cannot love but one.

I go but wheresoe'er I flee

There's not an eye

will weep

for me;

There's not a kind, congenial heart

Where I can claim the meanest part:
Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone,
Wilt sigh although I love but one.

To think of every early scene,

Of what we are, and what we've been,

Would whelm some softer hearts with woe,

But mine, alas! has stood the blow;

Yet still beats on as it begun,

And never truly loves but one.