Sente L' Aura Mia Antica, E I Dolci Colli. He Revisits Vaucluse. I Feel The Well-Known Gale; The Hills I Spy So Pleasant, Whence My Fair Her Being Drew, Which Made These Eyes, While Heaven Was Willing, Shew Wishful, And Gay; Now Sad, And Never Dry. O Feeble Hopes! O Thoughts Of Vanity! Wither'D The Grass, The Rills Of Turbid Hue; And Void And Cheerless Is That Dwelling Too, In Which I Live, In Which I Wish'D To Die; Hoping Its Mistress Might At Length Afford Some Respite To My Woes By Plaintive Sighs, And Sorrows Pour'D From Her Once-Burning Eyes. I've Served A Cruel And Ungrateful Lord: While Lived My Beauteous Flame, My Heart Be Fired; And O'Er Its Ashes Now I Weep Expired. Nott. Once More, Ye Balmy Gales, I Feel You Blow; Again, Sweet Hills, I Mark The Morning Beams Gild Your Green Summits; While Your Silver Streams Through Vales Of Fragrance Undulating Flow. But You, Ye Dreams Of Bliss, No Longer Here Give Life And Beauty To The Glowing Scene: For Stern Remembrance Stands Where You Have Been, And Blasts The Verdure Of The Blooming Year. O Laura! Laura! In The Dust With Thee, Would I Could Find A Refuge From Despair! Is This Thy Boasted Triumph. Love, To Tear A Heart Thy Coward Malice Dares Not Free; And Bid It Live, While Every Hope Is Fled, To Weep, Among The Ashes Of The Dead? Anne Bannerman.