Ye clear and sparkling streams! (Warm’d by the sunny beams) Through whose transparent crystal Laura play’d; Ye boughs that deck the grove, Where Spring her chaplets wove, While Laura lay beneath the quivering shade; Sweet herbs! and blushing flowers! That crown yon vernal bowers, For ever fatal, yet for ever dear; And ye, that heard my sighs When first she charm’d my eyes, Soft-breathing gales! my dying accents hear. If Heav’n has fix’d my doom, That Love must quite consume My bursting heart, and close my eyes in death Ah! grant this slight request,-- That here my urn may rest, When to its mansion flies my vital breath. This pleasing hope will smooth My anxious mind, and soothe The pangs of that inevitable hour; My spirit will not grieve Her mortal veil to leave In these calm shades, and this enchanting bower Haply, the guilty maid Through yon accustom’d glade To my sad tomb will take her lonely way Where first her beauty’s light O’erpower’d my dazzled sight, When love on this fair border bade me stray: There, sorrowing, shall she see, Beneath an aged tree, Her true, but hapless lover’s lowly bier; Too late her tender sighs Shall melt the pitying skies, And her soft veil shall hide the gushing tear O! well-remember’d day, When on yon bank she lay, Meek in her pride, and in her rigour mild; The young and blooming flowers, Falling in fragrant showers, Shone on her neck, and on her bosom smil’d Some on her mantle hung, Some in her locks were strung, Like orient gems in rings of flaming gold; Some, in a spicy cloud Descending, call’d aloud, “Here Love and Youth the reins of empire hold.” I view’d the heavenly maid And, rapt in wonder, said-- “The groves of Eden gave this angel birth,” Her look, her voice, her smile, That might all Heaven beguile, Wafted my soul above the realms of earth The star-bespangled skies Were open’d to my eyes; Sighing I said, “Whence rose this glittering scene?” Since that auspicious hour, This bank, and odorous bower, My morning couch, and evening haunt have been. Well mayst thou blush, my song, To leave the rural throng And fly thus artless to my Laura’s ear, But, were thy poet’s fire Ardent as his desire, Thou wert a song that Heaven might stoop to hear It is within probability to imagine, that the original of this “ode” may have been impressed on the paper, by Petrarch’s pen, from the inkstand of the frontispiece. Vol. I.--1. THE TABLE BOOK.