The Journey of Love.

THE JOURNEY OF LOVE.

Now Anteros lend me thy gossamer pinion,

And teach me the speed of Armata's sweet dove, I fly to the seat of thy blissful dominion,

For Catharine's breast is the mansion of love.

No longer shall Fortune be whelm'd with invective,
If my journey the goddess but bless with her smile;
I heed not its length, while I view in perspective
The sharer, rewarder, and end of my toil.

If love has its sorrows, yet, who would refuse 'em,
So sweeten'd with rapture, so mingled with joy?
What mortal the rose would discard from his bosom,
Lest the thorn which attends it should chance to

annoy?

Separation was such-but the wound it inflicted
Will soon be forgot in the glow of a kiss;
Though grief on the visage has oft been depicted,
The tear shall soon glisten a tribute of bliss.

Ah! still on my vision the object increases!
The cottage of peace and affection I spy!
Hope smiles, as my bosom, unconscious, releases
The murmur of wishes respired in a sigh.

The Journey of Love-Good Morning.

Now, now am I blest!-But, ah! language it fails me,
No pencil can paint love's ecstatic alarms:
'Tis she that approaches-'tis Catharine hails me,
She gazes! she smiles!-I am press'd in her arms!

GOOD MORNING.

The blushing precursor of Phœbus expands
The crystalline portals of light;

And scatters the dew-dripping tints from her hands,
To crimson the mantle of Night.

Sleep shakes his soft pinions and soars to the sky,
And with rapture I greet my dear Jane—

Whose health-flushing visage and soul-beaming eye,
Aurora but mimics in vain-

Good Morning.

Thy presence to me is the dawning of light,

And pleasure illumines my breast;

But, ah! in thy absence morn changes to night-
Hope sinks like the star of the west.

Then let us, my fair one, the moments improve

Which morning allows us for bliss,

Let the new-risen day be devoted to love,

And in earnest accept of a kiss

Good Morning.

Good Morning- -Giving and Receiving.

When evening returns, and in slumber I lie,

Then fancy the scene shall retrace ;

Shall light up anew the soft glance of thine eye,
And restore me thy blissful embrace.

And when through thy lattice Aurora's tints play,
O fly to the arms of thy swain,

With him taste the sweets of the infantile day,
And hear him repeat on the plain—

Good Morning.

GIVING AND RECEIVING.

The suppliant departed, while gratitude's tear
In his joy-beaming eye was suspended;
My heart bounded light, for my Lydia was near,
Who thus the donation commended:

"The bosom which softens at Misery's wound, "And proffers the balsam to heal him,

"With the glow of contentment must joyfully bound— "And such is the breast of my Selim."

"But which," I exclaim'd, as the fair one I press'd, While her eye with affection was brighten'd, "Receiver or donor, which think you most blest ? "Whose joy by the action most heighten❜d ?”

-Harriet's Favourite Poems.

Giving and Receiving

"The being, she answer'd, you saved from despair, "Who tastes, by the sudden reversion,

"Of exquisite bliss a proportionate share,
"To the depth of his recent immersion.”

Her answer was sweeten'd with love's nectar'd kiss,
And my breast with the transport was heaving,
As I own'd, with a sigh, that though giving was bliss,
It was faint to the joy of receiving.

HARRIET'S FAVOURITE POEMS.

When I survey my Harriet's speaking face,
The smiles that light, the tears that fill her eyes,
The frown of anger, or the rose's grace,

I view the Seasons in succession rise.
When a glance of affection her optics impart,
The Pleasures of Hope are alive in my heart.

Lost in the theme, when bending o'er her lyre,
She wakes the tones which fascinate the soul,
I view the Minstrel that I most admire,

And list in rapture while her numbers roll.
When absent I yield to reflection's sweet power,
The Pleasures of Memory shorten the hour.

Harriet's Favourite Poems.

If she, with fondness, chide my ardent kiss,
And, with a soft'ning smile, forbearance ask,
Or bid me, with a frown, forego the bliss,

I bow submission, but neglect the Task.
For should she condemn me the bliss to forego,
In the Grave would I seek for an end of my wo.

When Fancy through her own creation strays,
To promised joy delighting still to cling,
From her alone, my glowing bosom says,
The Pleasures of Imagination spring.

But when Curiosity rises to vex,
Then Paradise Lost I impute to the sex.

I told her thus-when in her snowy arms,
My yielding form the angel gently strain'd,
And I, bewilder'd with a maze of charms,
Sigh'd in her ear-'tis Paradise Regain'd!
Retired from elysium the scene to retrace,

My Night Thoughts re-pictured the tender embrace.