4 In vain with love our bosoms glow: Can all our tears, can all our sighs, New lustre to those charms impart? Can cheeks, where living roses blow, Where nature spreads her richest dyes, Require the borrowed gloss of art? 5 Speak not of fate: ah! change the theme, And talk of odours, talk of wine, Talk of the flowers that round us bloom: 'Tis all a cloud, 'tis all a dream; To love and joy thy thoughts confine, Nor hope to pierce the sacred gloom. 6 Beauty has such resistless power, That even the chaste Egyptian dame Sighed for the blooming Hebrew boy: For her how fatal was the hour, When to the banks of Nilus came A youth so lovely and so coy! 7 But, ah! sweet maid, my counsel hear, (Youth should attend when those advise Whom long experience renders sage): While music charms the ravished ear, While sparkling cups delight our eyes, Be gay; and scorn the frowns of age. 8 What cruel answer have I heard? And yet, by Heaven, I love thee still: Can aught be cruel from thy lip? Yet say, how fell that bitter word From lips which streams of sweetness fill, Which nought but drops of honey sip? 9 Go boldly forth, my simple lay, Whose accents flow with artless ease, Like orient pearls at random strung: Thy notes are sweet, the damsels say; But, oh! far sweeter, if they please The nymph for whom these notes are sung. SAMUEL BISHOP. This gentleman was born in 1731, and died in 1795. He was an English clergyman, master of Merchant Tailors' School, London, and author of a volume of Latin pieces, entitled 'Feriae Poeticae,' and of various other poetical pieces. We give some verses to his wife, from which it appears that he remained an ardent lover long after having become a husband. TO MRS BISHOP, WITH A PRESENT OF A KNIFE. 'A knife,' dear girl, 'cuts love,' they say! Mere modish love, perhaps it may-- For any tool, of any kind, Can separate--what was never joined. The knife, that cuts our love in two, Will have much tougher work to do; Must cut your softness, truth, and spirit, Down to the vulgar size of merit; To level yours, with modern taste, Must cut a world of sense to waste; And from your single beauty's store, Clip what would dizen out a score. That self-same blade from me must sever Sensation, judgment, sight, for ever: All memory of endearments past, All hope of comforts long to last; All that makes fourteen years with you, A summer, and a short one too; All that affection feels and fears, When hours without you seem like years. Till that be done, and I'd as soon Believe this knife will chip the moon, Accept my present, undeterred, And leave their proverbs to the herd. If in a kiss--delicious treat!-- Your lips acknowledge the receipt, Love, fond of such substantial fare, And proud to play the glutton there, 'All thoughts of cutting will disdain, Save only--'cut and come again.' TO THE SAME,