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When of hope, the last spark which thy smile us'd to cherish!
In my bosom shall die, and its splendour be o'er;
And the pulse of this heart which adores you shall perish,
Oh! then, dearest Ellen, I'll love you no more.
THE THORN.
From the white blossom'd sloe my dear Chloe requested,
A sprig her fair breast to adorn:
No, by heaven! I exclaim'd, may I perish,
If ever I plant in that bosom a thorn.
Then I show'd her a ring, and implor'd her to marry,
She blush'd like the dawning of morn,
Yes, I'll consent, she reply'd, if you'll promise,
That no jealous rival shall laugh me to scorn.
No, by heaven! &c.
FINIS.
