Six duets in canon for two soprano voices, with an accompaniment for the piano forte

Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger,
Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her
The flowry May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose.
Hail bounteous May that dost inspire
Mirth and youth, and warm desire,
Woods and groves, are of thy dressing,
Hill and dale, doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early Song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

Tell me, thou soul of her I love
 . . . . . . . . . .

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Higher, higher will we climb
 . . . . . . . . . .

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"Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells,
Lonely and lost to light for evermore,
Save when to thine my heart responsive swells,
Then trembles into silence as before.

"There, in its centre, a sepulchral lamp
Burns the slow flame, eternal — but unseen;
Which not the darkness of Despair can damp,
Though vain its ray as it had never been.

"Remember me — Oh! pass not thou my grave
Without one thought whose relics there recline:
The only pang my bosom dare not brave
Must be to find forgetfulness in thine.

"My fondest — faintest — latest accents hear — 
Grief for the dead not Virtue can reprove;
Then give me all I ever asked — a tear,
The first — last — sole reward of so much love!

O! how much more doth beauty beauteous seem
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give?
The rose looks fair, but fairer [we it]1 deem
[For]2 that sweet odour, which doth in it live.
The canker blooms have full as deep a dye
As the perfumed tincture of the roses,
Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly
When summer's breath their masked buds discloses:
But, for [their]3 virtue only is their show,
They live unwoo'd, and unrespected fade;
Die [to]4 themselves. Sweet roses do not so;
Of their sweet deaths, are sweetest odours made:
    And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
    When that shall fade, by verse distills your truth.

The snowdrop dies, and winter goes
 . . . . . . . . . .

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