TO THE SHADE OF ******
REPROACH me not, beloved shade,

Nor think thy memory less I prize:
The smile which o'er my features played,

But hid my pangs from vulgar eyes.
I acted like the worldling boy,

With heart to every feeling vain :
I smiled with all, yet felt no joy--

I wept with all, yet felt no pain.
No, though to veil my thoughts of gloom

I seem to twine joy's rosy wreath :
'Twas but as flowerets o'er a tomb,

Which only hide the woe beneath.
I lose no portion of my woes,

Although my tears in secret flow--
More green and fresh the verdure grows,

Where the cold streams run hid below.

J. s.

LINES,

IMITATED FROM THE GREEK, To the Memory of Miss Elizabeth $*****, who died 1816,

an Infant. DEAD! nay, Eliza is but gone

To better worlds on high;
Gone far above yon dazzling glorious sun-

Gone to enjoy, above yon spangled sky,
A boundless inconceivable felicity.
In that bright mansion blest,

Supremely happy there,
Thou shalt enjoy a never-ending rest,

Far from each earthly hope, each earthly fear, And smile while mortals struggle with our evils here. Now fell disease, now heat and cold,

Must take their leave of thee,
For ever, though reluctant, loose their hold-

Whilst thou, sweet child, enraptured, there shalt see The dread Eternal, clothed in all his majesty!

PETER.

SONG.
LET Love's enthusiasts wake the lyre,

And sing of racks, and chains, and woe;
Or die, like martyr's girt with fire,

With one sweet, sad, romantic throe! . To nature's rural shrine I fly,

Where roses blush adown the vale, And give-unseen by mortal eye

My harp's wild music to the gale! What varied beauties fill the glade!

What balmy treasures load the breeze!
What blendings rich of light and shade

The eye on distant foliage sees! -
The gliitering rivulet that flows

Through fields of undulating grass,
Myriads of sparkles gayly throws,

And gleams like “molten looking glass." Hush-hush my harp!-more tuneful skill

Than plays thy warbling wires amongWhile nature's charms with rapture thrill

Must weave those charms in magic song.
While Thomson's wizard tones are felt

With unmix'd pathos through the globe,
Thy simple harmonies must melt,

Like zephyr's sighs on nature's robe.
August 10, i818.

C

* * *

*

* *

SYMPATHY. THE wretch, whom some proud tyrant's doom Has buried in a dungeon's gloom, Where a few glimmering rays of light Scarcely distinguish day from night, If, through his grate, a brighter beam Should for a moment chance to gleam, Will raise his drooping head and smile, And half forget his woes the while; So sorrow lifts her languid eye,

To meet the look of sympathy. Bristol.

JACOB PLAYER. TO ELIZA. ELIZA pluck'd a budding rose,

Where lay a slumbering sylph at rest, Who stirred not from his soft repose,

'Till placed upon her snowy bieast : But who could long lie slumbering there?

Did bee e'er sleep on banks of roses? It is a place more sweet, more fair,

On which this happy sylph reposes.
Aroused, he trembling looks, to see
Whence such excess of bliss could be.
Awhile in wonder gazed the sprite

On fair Eliza's beauteous face:
And then he viewed, with wild delight,

His rose-bed's luscious resting place.
Long basking in her beauty's ray,

He felt in truth a world of bliss,
Hoped he for ever there might stay-

Alas! how vain a hope was this!
Eliza bent to kiss the flower,
· The wanton then, with strange alarms,
Took shelter in his rose-form'd bower,

To shield him from her matchless charms!
Her ruby lips approached his bed,

Ambrosial sweets distilling,
Upon a sweet more sweets she shed,

Each leaf with fragrance filling
A moment charmed he trembling lay---

'Twas extacy too vast to bear! -
The embowering leaves he dash'd away,

Which shower'd on her breast so fair,
Whilst he regretting Aled in air.
Eliza thought the breeze that past.

Had done the mischief that she wept-
Yes, many a pearly tear she cast,

As from her heaving breast she swept The blushing leaves, whose deepened die

Their sense of such a joy betrayed ! Oh! let me for a moment lie

In Heaven-upon thy breast, sweet maid! Plymouth, August 13, 1818. ROBERT

LINES,
WRITTEN IN THE RUINS OF * * *** *.
OH stream! whose proudly flowing tide
Through scenes majestic loved to glide,
Adorned by terrace, tower, and tree,
That borrowed still a grace from thee;
No more by tower and terrace now
Thy placid waves are doomed to flow;
Thyself the sole remaining grace,
Where once unnumbered charms could trace
Their sweet impression on the spot-
Those charms are faded and forgot!
Their splendour sunk, their beauty Howi,
Or beauteous in their fall alone!
The lord of many a former day
Along thy margin loved to stray,
And view, reflected in thy food,
The pride of his paternal wood';
The falling of thy silver stream
Soothed many a listener's waking dream.
All, all is waste and silent now!
Unseen, unheard thy waters flow,
Save where along thy moss-grown side,
In mood to mournfulness allied,
Some lonely pensive wanderer strays,
And gleans a tale of other days.
Those stately towers, those heights subliine,
That mocked the growing strength of time,
How fair and firm they once did seem,
How fleeting thou, inconstant stream!
Yet time has spared thy changeful tide,
Though ruin wait on all beside.
So fares it with life's doubtful span;
So nature seems to sport with man :
The mighty droop, the strong decay,
The proud to ruin waste away;
While those in mould more humble cast,
The ruin and the danger past,
Secure, their peaceful trophies raise
Amidst the wreck of brighter days.

PERCY.

THE REVERIE. IN the gay morn of life, when no sorrows opprest, And youth's glowing passions reigned over mv brea Oh! bright was the ideal picture I drew, It enchanted my soul with its richness of hue. My mind like a garden luxuriantly smiled, There intelligence grew in exuberance wild, Unknowing, unheeding, how useless the toil, With ardour I cultured the rich mental soil, And wrapt in delusion did vainly presume The flowerets of Fancy for ever would bloom. Buto'er the bright prospect Care's clouds closed around, And veiled all my hopes in a darkness profound; Joy yielded to anguish, and gloomy despair Assailed my sad bosom and fixed itself there. Now, Fancy no longer roves over the bower, Embellished so gaily in youth's fleeting hour; Its flowerets once blooming now withered recline, And to view them with rapture no longer is mine, For that sun which once shot forth in brilliance its ray, Has set, and the magic's all vanished away. August 10, 1818.

D. D.

TO MARY.
I SAW upon thy breast a flower,

And wished-but what 'tis vain to tell---
It bloomed, the creature of an hour,

For soon'it withered, drooped, and fell.
Ah pretty flower, thou couldst not bear

That bosom's touch-the joy of lving
On love's soft throne, a heaven, where

I envy thee the bliss of dying".
But say, oh say, what made thee die ?

Didst thou e'er love her unrequited ?
Didst thou e'er breathe for her a sigh?

Or feel thy hopes for ever blighted ?
Didst thou when loving, love sincerely,

Though doomed beneath her hate to pine?-
Placed near that heart I prize so dearly,

Would, pretty flower thy fate were mine.
Plymouth, Aug. 13, 1818.

ROBERT.