^80 THE LOVER’S OFFERING, 
And colour’d like the fruit which glows 
Upon the sunn’d pomegranate boughs. 
And oh! her soft low voice might lull 
The spirit to a dream of bliss. 
As if the voices, sweet and bland. 
Which murmur in the seraph lan , 
Were warbling in a world like this. 
—Xg) o c — 
THE HAREBELL...GRIEF. 
Tell me, thou soul of her I love, 
Ah! tell me whither art thou fled; 
To what delightful world above, 
Appointed for the happy dead ; 
Or, dost thou, free, at pleasure roam, 
And sometimes share thy lover s woe, 
Where, void of thee, his cheerless home 
Can now, alas! no comfort know i 
Oh ’. if thou hov’rest round my walk, 
While, under every well-known tree, 
I to thy fancied shadow talk, 
And ev’ry tear is full of thee,— 
Should, then, the weary eye of grief, 
Beside some sympathetic stream, 
In slumber find a short relief, 
Oh I visit thou my soothing dream 
