The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 13, No. 363, March 28, 1829. Various

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      Go, trace the forest maze,

      Or Cretan lab'rinth solve,

      On Nature's myst'ries gaze,

      Or Gordian knot resolve.

      Tell whence the magnet's force,

      The central motive scan,

      Lay bare Nile's hidden source,

      Earth's vast circumference span.

      Results from such detail

      Skill superhuman prove:

      Yet powers like these would fail

      To tell the course of love.

      Direct the impulse fierce

      Of ocean's watery sway;

      When wint'ry tempests pierce,

      Bind Boreas to obey.

      Go, mould the fleeting cloud,

      The lucid dew-drop mix,

      The solar radiance shroud,

      The trembling moonbeam fix.

      Then bid the wand'ring star

      Within the zodiac move;

      'Twere task more hard by far

      To guide the course of love.

      Stop the meridian flight

      Of Jove's proud plumy race;

      Arrest the fiercest fight

      When foe-men battle face.

      Forbid the earth to turn.

      Forbid the tides to flow,

      Forbid the sun to burn,

      Forbid the winds to blow.

      Bid the fix'd orb of day.

      Beyond his sphere to move,

      Or cease th' attempt, I pray,

      To stop the course of love.

      I'll be at your ball—dear Eliza,

      Could you doubt of my wish to be there,

      When ask'd by the maiden I prize a-

      Bove all maidens, though e'er so fair?

      Busy fancy brings back in my dreams

      The walks, still enchanting, we took,

      When the zephyrs scarce ruffled the streams,

      No sound heard, save the murm'ring brook;

      The stars we together have watched—

      What pleasure these thoughts do recall!

      Believe that your truly attached,

      Dear Eliza, will be at your ball.

      Can study those feelings estrange,

      Of affection so ardent and true?

      Or absence or time ever change

      A heart so devoted to you?

      My voice may have altered its tone,

      My brow may be furrow'd by care,

      But, oh, dearest girl, there are none

      Possess of my heart the least share.

      You say that my hair is neglected,

      That my dress don't become me at all;

      Can you feel surprised I'm dejected,

      Since I parted from you at your ball?

      I listlessly turn o'er the pages.

      So fraught with amusement before

      Tasso, Dante, and even the sages,

      Once pleasing, are pleasing no more.

      When I walk on the banks of the Mole,

      Or recline 'neath our favourite tree,

      As the needle is true to the pole,

      So my thoughts still concentre in thee.

      Old Time moves so slow, he appears,

      "With age quite decrepit," to crawl;

      And days seem now lengthen'd to years,

      Before we shall meet—at your ball.