I'd fain, in speeches sweet with skill combined,
Poetic sweetmeats for the feast provide;
But why in such frivolities confide?
Perish the thought, with flattery to blind!
One sweet thing there is still, that from within,
Within us speaks,—that may be felt afar;
This may be wafted o'er to thee alone.
If thou a recollection fond canst win.
As if with pleasure gleamed each well-known star,
The smallest gift thou never wilt disown.
THE WARNING.
When sounds the trumpet at the Judgment Day,
And when for ever all things earthly die,
We must a full and true account supply
Of ev'ry useless word we dropped in play.
But what effect will all the words convey
Wherein with eager zeal and lovingly,
That I might win thy favour, laboured I,
If on thine ear alone they die away?
Therefore, sweet love, thy conscience bear in mind,
Remember well how long thou hast delayed,
So that the world such sufferings may not know.
If I must reckon, and excuses find
For all things useless I to thee have said,
To a full year the Judgment Day will grow.
THE EPOCHS.
On Petrarch's heart, all other days before,
In flaming letters written, was impressed
Good Friday. And on mine, be it confessed,
Is this year's Advent, as it passeth o'er.
