My  pulse  beats  high  ;  my  throbbing  breast's  on  fire
In  sad  variety  of  wild  desire.
O  Hoyland  !  heavenly  goddess  1  angel — saint !
Words  are  too  weak  thy  mighty  worth  to  paint ;
Thou  best,  completcst  work  that  Nature  made,
Thou  art  my  substance  and  I  am  thy  shade.
Possessed  of  thee,  I  joyfully  would  go
Through  the  loud  tempest  and  the  depth  of  woe.
From  thee  alone  my  being  I  derive —
One  beauteous  smile  from  thee  makes  all  my  hopes
alive.
TO  MISS  HOYLAND.
SINCE  short  the  busy  scene  of  life  will  prove,
Let  us,  my  Hoyland,  learn  to  live  and  love  ;
To  love  with  passions  pure  as  morning  light,
Whose  saffron  beams,  unsullied  by  the  night,
With  rosy  mantles  do  the  heavens  streak,
Faint  imitators  of  my  Hoyland's  cheek.
The  joys  of  Nature  in  her  ruined  state
Have  little  pleasure,  though  the  pains  are  great :
Virtue  and  Love,  when  sacred  bands  unite,
'Tis  then  that  Nature  leads  to  true  delight.
TO  MISS  HOYLAND.  6g


Oft  as  I  wander  through  the  myrtle  grove,
Bearing  the  beauteous  burden  of  my  love,
A  secret  terror,  lest  I  should  offend
The  charming  maid  on  whom  my  joys  depend,
Informs  my  soul,  that  virtuous  minds  alone
Can  give  a  pleasure  to  the  vile  unknown.
But  when  the  body  charming,  and  the  mintj
To  every  virtuous  Christian  act  inclined,
Meet  in  one  person,  maid  and  angel  join,
"Who  must  it  be,  but  Hoyland  the  divine  ?
What  worth  intrinsic  will  that  man  possess
"Whom  the  dear  charmer  condescends  to  bless  ?
Swift  will  the  minutes  roll,  the  flying  hours,
And  blessings  overtake  the  pair  by  showers  ;
Each  moment  will  improve  upon  the  past,
And  every  day  be  better  than  the  last.
