HENRY ROWE

Glad, pale Cynthian wine I sip, Breathed the flow'ry leaves among;

Draughts delicious wet my lip ;

Drown' d in nectar drunk my song ;

While tuned to Philomel the lay,

Beneath, O maiden Moon ! thy ray.

Dew, that od'rous ointment yields, Sweets, that western winds disclose,

Bathing spring's more purpled fields, Soft's the band that winds the rose;

While o'er thy myrtled lawns I stray

Beneath, O maiden Moon ! thy ray.

��WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES Time and Grief

��TIME ! who know'st a lenient hand to lay Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence (Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) The faint pang stealest unperceived away ; On thee I rest my only hope at last, And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear, I may look back on every sorrow past, And meet life's oeaceful evening with a smile: As some lone bird, at day's departing hour, Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient shower Forgetful, thougn its wings are wet the while : Yet ah ! how much must this poor heart endure, Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure I

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