Edward Coote Pinkney

"Her every tone is musics own, Like those of morning birds, And something more than melody Dwells ever in her words."

"The winds are awed, nor dare to breathe aloud; The air seems never to have borne a cloud, Save where volcanoes send to heavn their curld And solemn smokes, like altars of the world."

"I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon; To whom the better elements And kindly stars have given A form so fair, that, like the air, Tis less of earth than heaven."

"Look out upon the stars, my love, And shame them with thine eyes."

"The sportive hopes that used to chase their shifting shadows on, Like children playing in the sun, are gone—for ever gone; And on a careless, sullen peace, my double-fronted mind, Like Janus, when his gates are shut, looks forward and behind.Apollo placed his harp, of old, awhile upon a stone, Which has resounded since, when struck, a breaking harp strings tone; And thus my heart, though wholly now from early softness free, If touchd, will yield the music yet, it first received of thee."