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Of hir array the form gif I fal write, Edwin, (he said, with looks of kind dismay)
Toward her golden haire, and rich atyre, Earth's meteor hopes but glitter to betray, In fretwise couchit wt perlis qubite,
Thou canst not fly from God's all-chaft’ning hand, And grete balas lemyng as the fyre,
Storms sweep the ocean, discord blasts the land: Wt mony ané emerant and faire saphire, No change of climate can reverse our doom,
And on hir hede a chaplet fresch of hewe, Life's various roads all center in the tomb! Of plumys partit rede,; and qubite, and blewe. Thus the meek sage my salh resolve represt, Full of quaking spangis bryt as gold,
While tears of pity bath'd his hpary breaft, Forgit of schap like to the amorettisg.
Oh! had I liften'd to his wife alarmsy So now, so fretch, so pleasant to behold, Then had I died at home in friendship's arms.
The plumys eke like to the floure jonettis, Twelve tedious weeks we plough'd the wintry And other of schap, like to the floure jonettis;
main, And, above all this, there was, wele I wote,
And hop'd the port; but hop'd, alas! ¡n vain; Beautee eneuch to mak a world to dote. Till, left of heaven, and press’d for daily bread, About hir rieck, quhite as the fyre amaille,
Each gaz'd at each, and hung the fickly head: A gudlie cheyne of small orfeverye,
Two little sons, my hope, my humble pride,
Too weak to combat, languish'd, wail'd, and died; Quhare by there hang a ruby, wtout faille Like to ane hert schapin verily,
Stretch'd on the deck the breathless cherubs lay,
As buds put forth in April's stormy day., That, as a spark of lowe fo wantonly
Not Emma's self remain'd my woes to cheer, Semyt birnyng upon hir quhite throte,
Borne with her babes upon a watery bier: Now gif there was gud pertye, God it wote.
Five days she struggled with the fever's fire; And for to walk that fresche Mayes morowe, : The fixth sad morn beheld my faint expire.
Ane buke Me had upon her tiķew quhite, These'trembling lips her lips convulsive prest, That gudelaire had not bene sene to forowe,
These tremblinghands sustain d her linking breast; As I suppose, and girt sche was alyte;
These trembling hands discharg'd each mournful Thus halflyng lowse for haste, to suich delyte
rite, i It was to see her zouth in gudelihed,
Sooth'd her last pang, and seal'd her dying fight, That for rudenes to speke thereof I drede.? To the same deep their dear remains were given;
Their mingled spirits wing'd their flight to heaven. Art. IX. The Peasant of Auburn; Surviv'd the wreck that whelm d my all belide,
One only daughter, in life's vernal pride, ar, the Emigrant. A Poem. Inscribed Snatch'd from the peace of death, and loathingday, to the Earl
of Carlisle. By T. Coombe, On bleak Henlopen's coast the mourner lay. : D.D. 15. 4to. Elmfly:
These aged arms her languid body bore
Through the rude breakers to that ruder shore. *HIS little poem is a sort of con. Mercy; sweet Heaven! and did the pitying ftoring
Spare but' for deeper ills that angel form! Deserted Village, and seems intend. And mine and Lucy's been one common grave. ed to diffuade our countrymen from But I am loft, a worn-out, ruin'd man, emigrating to America: a very lauda. And fiends compleat what tyranny began.
Much had I heard, from men unus'd to feign, ble intention, and well worthy every of this new world, and Freedom's gentle reign: effort of every benevolent divine.
here, by no proud master fpurn'd, With respect to the poeti cal mețit The poor man ate secure the bread he earn'd; of the present performance, evident- That verdant vales were fed by brighter streams ly the production of a sensible and Fields without bounds spontaneous fruitage bore,
Than my own Medway, or the filver Thames; feeling heart, little can be said in
And peace and virtue bless'd the favour'd shore. it's favour; the versification is in ge- Such were the hopes which once beguild my care, neral smooth, but there are very few Hopes formd in dreams, and baseless as the air.' marks of great genius or originality, Indeed, though the whole poem is Here, as I trace my melancholy way, comprized in about two hundred The prowling Indian snuffs his wonted prey; lines, we question much if we could Ha! Thould I meet him in his dusky round not select at least twenty evidently Still the deep war-whoop vibrates on ming cas;
Late in these woods I heard his murderous foundung borrowed from Dr. Goldsmith's De. And still I hear his tread, or seem to hear. serted Village or Traveller,and other Hark! the leaves rustle! what a shriek was there! modern poems:
'Tis he! 'tis he! his triumphs rend the air. Few of these instances, however, Hold, coward heart! I'll answer to the yell,
And chase the murderer to his gory çell. appear in the following extracts.
Savage! but, oh! I raveimo?er yonder wild,
E'en at this hour, he drives my only child; Ah, me! the words our pious Preacher spoke, She, the dear source and soother of my pain, When first to him my mournful mind I broker. My tender daughter, drags the captive chain."
POE T RY.
ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG LADY, DANGE
BY MASTER GEORGE LOVIS LENOX.
Y wounded heart for Mira grieves,
And no fond hope my soul relieves! Ah, no! abandon’d to defpair, And suffering with the hapless fair, To Heaven I raise my streaming eyes, But no kind angel hears my cries, Methinks I fee the lovely maid, On the dire bed of fickness laid; I fee her fix her languid eye, And now I hear her faintly figh; I see her robb’d of every grace, And death triumphant in her face; I view her frantic mother's fright, While tears obscure her fifter's fight. Ye gods! if Virtue be your care, The trueft of her votaries spare; Have pity on her blooming youth, Her innocence, her spo:less truth; Restore her to a mother's care, Hear a distracted lover's prayer; Oh! give her to a fifter's love, And let the tears of thousands move; For she to every heart was dear, And all partook her parent's fear! Will no kind angel intercede; None stop the shaft that is decreed To fall on her devoted head, And number Mira with the dead? Upon the wicked turn it's rage, But spare the wonder of the age!
Ah, me! undone, too late I find
The feebler tribute of a friend!
L'ANNÉE; OR, THE YEAR.:
BY MR. S. COLLINGS.
MARRIED MAN'S SOLILOQUY,
IS true she is divinely fair,
A finish'd shape, and easy air;
Ye gods! poffess’d of these, can ought
Thro' reverend elms a gleam of light Rise the winds, and rock the cottage;
Illum'd a fragrant bower; Thaws the roof, and wets the path;
Where Delia sat, in pensive mood, Dorcas cooks the savoury pottage;
To spend the midnight hour.
When, lo! before her wondering eyes,
Arose a fpectre pale;
And, in a hollow tone of voice,
Thus told it's plaintive tale
Know, Delia, from the dead I come,
To tell thee Edwin's fate;
Who, wounded by imperious fcorn,
Has sought the grove of late:
enshrin'd with thousands morey Pluck the flowers but fpare the neft!
He sleeps in hallow'd ease;
While keen remorse, and anxious fear,
By turns thy bofom seize.
For thee alone, whild here on earth, Spend the sultry hour of play;
All other nymphs he fled; While the nymphs and fwains are courting,
Or, forc'd to join the social crowd,
Still droop'd his penfive head:
And when from busy scenes retir'da
He breath'd his fate anew;
And bade the gentle zephyrs bear
The plaintive notes to you.
But, ah! that cruel heart of thing
Despis'd the humble swain;
And, when he ask'd a kind return,
You triumph'd in his pain...
Now, Delia, cease! nor bence pretend
To boast of beauty's fway;
For know, that damask'd cheek will foon
Grow wrinkled, and decay.
Improve a moral turn of thought,
As Henryt oft advis'd;
And let thy native charms appear,
By folly undisguis'd.
Leaves autumnal strew the ground; The wretched foothe, with pity's hand, Plenty crowns the market measure,
And cherish virtue's birth;
That ftamps a female's worth
The spectre ceas'd, and disappear’d;
And Delia thus began, Ah! the year is fitting from us,
While, down her pallid face, the tears Bleak the day, and drear the night! In glistening torrents ran DECEMBER
Happy for me, if I had ne'er
My Edwin's fuit denied!
A sacrifice to pride.
Then fay, fhall I, with wanton airy
Exult in life's gay bloom;
While Edwin, loft to ev'ry joy,
Lies withering in the tomb.
No, oft as night furrounds this globe,
And learn to pity, tho' too late,
The youth I cannot save, Her filver crescent rear'd.
AMINTON * See, Edwin's Farewel Epifle to Delia, page 210 Delia's father.
.» ELEGIAC STANZAS
Her soul was gentle as the summer's breeze, TO TNE MEMORY OF
Pure as the virgin snow, or downy fleece;
Her manners traught with dignity and ease; THE HONOURABLE MRS. HENEAGE,
Her ways were pleasant and ber packas were
peace. TXE RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD PETRE. Bright was the fleeting tenor of her day;
But, ah! too soon the heavenly charm is o'er! 11$ SALTEM ACCUMULIM DOXIS IT FUN.
Enough--lince all that Sympathy can say, GAR IN ANO
But wakes the heart to keen regret the more.
ADDRESS TO THE MUSE. Still might Ophelia draw unsullied breath;
INSCRIBED TO MISS **.
That e'er was heard in leafy bower or dale; Nor Goodnesssoothe the fiend with ghaftly mien'Thy plaintive founds her listening ear shall fill. The friend we cherish, and the maid we love,
Blow soft, ye zephyrs; and, ye winds, be ftill!
Go, plaintive Mule, to lovely **'s ear, When these command, muk quit the vital sceae.
• Heave the warm ligh, and shed the tender tear:", Awhile these samples of th' Eternal Mind There, to the lovely nymph, in softest train,
(SoHeaven ordains )oncarth with pacience roam; Go, gently whisper all thy master's pain! To leave regret and melting fighs behind, lo choicelt words, which streams of sweetness fill, When kindred angels cali a fifter home. Call Heaven to witness how I love her ftill!
(Oh! had some power endued thy faltering tongue, Such was Optrelia-a(from our fcene retird) - With pleasing accents soft persuasion hung;
Let truth, let worth, revere the facred pame: Then might I hope to win the lovely maid, Her least ambition was to be admir'd;.
And softly call her to the rural fade!) And all that pomp can give, her least of fame. Tell her, for me, in vain the wanton gales
Shed scented odours o'er the blooming vales; No pride, save noble, generous pride, the knew;
From tree to tree the vocal warblers play, Patient the heard the tale of virtuous woe;
Bewail their little loves in tuneful lay; The rooted thorn from Sorrow's bosom drew,
To hear sweet Philomel in song complain, And bade the rear of Anguilh cease to flow,
And trembling Echo warble back the strain: Ne'er dia Dejection Thun her pure abode,
Ah! these no more my troubled soul delight, Nor Misery fly insulted from her door;
But each gay fcene is wrapp'd in gloomy night; Her stream of wealth in Bounty's channel flow'd, Forever, now, I'm bath'd in falling tears; And pour'd the side of plenty on the Poor.
Nojoy enlivens, and no pleasure chears,
Hope Alatter'd once-alas! 'tis now consumid; These fhall the tear of grateful mem'ry give, Like flowers that wither ere they well have Sincere and felt as is the Muse's strain:
bloom'd! Long in the breast of Anguish thatt fhe live, Thus oft, emerging from the fhades of night, But ne'er to thed a healing balm again! Laughs rofy Morn, and spreads a glittering light;
When darken'd clouds foon fhade the flattering Yet, O! ye Poor, wbo streaming sorrows blend,
frene, Ar. equal hope in generous Petre view;
And lightnings dart along th' enamell'd green. To him her fame, her virtues all defcend; And all her tender charities to you.
Ah, fatal day! that day of Port delight,
When first her charmsentranc'd my ravish'd fight! For him no more can Pleasure find a charm;
Such charms mine eyes had ne'er beheld before, Nor Peace allure him to her flowery seats:
Which maids may envy, but mankind adøre! Heart-piercing woes ftern Reafon's power disarm, Say, gentle Muse, what beauty did unfold And life's red tide in wild diforder beats. That lovely form, by language yet untold!
Those piercingeyes, which fweetly oft you'vefung; Deep groves alone receive his figh profound, Those rofy lips, and that enchanting tongue;
Where dew-drops mingle with the falling tear; Those lovely treffes, and that dimpled (mile; Where poplars strew their yellow leaves around, Thole fyren looks, thatmight the heavens beguile, As if to grace Ophelia's filent bier.
That robb'd my heart of eafe, my eyes of Deep;
Firft taught me how to love, but now to weep. The gentle partner of his fond embrace In mournful cadence answers every figh:
No trees o'er hade the lily-bofom'd vale,
No roses wanton to tbc breathing gale, His faithful dog, that led him to the chace,
No flow'rets open to the morning rays, Explores the grief that trembles in his eye.
No bubbling fountain through the valley plays; Opbelia's name is whisper*d through the shade, · But knows the torments of my troubl'd breast,
Where fluwerets droop, or all unheeded bloom; What cares confume me, and what pains infest! While the fad swain, to many a pentive mait, Oft, when I' feep, and in the darkiome night, Repeats the verfe that's gravid upon ber tomb. Her beauteouis image glides before my tight
Why flow those tears? (the lovely phantom cries;) Thou ample room didft find
With nature, fancy, wit, and thought:
Alas! he charms no more, Once more regale my fight before I die:
« Who set the table in a roar!" Thy presence only can my grief dispel,
No more Maria's tale fhall move Or snatch my spirit from it's mortal cell!.
His tender heart with generous love; It comes no more. But now I wake to grieve; No more Le Fevre's pangs be felt Fresh flow my tears, and fighs my bosom heave. By him, who taught our kindred souls to melt.
Ye violet banks, that oft my limbs have borne; Ye winding streams, that learnt of me to mourn;
But, ah! what fairy scenes I view! Ye cooing doves, that tune your plaintive lay;
My ravish'd soul what mighty magic charms! Ye leafy shades, where love has made me stray:
To think the sweet delusion true, For her bloom fair; melodious be your strains;
My fond imagination warms. Whilft I'm condemn'd to never-ceasing pains!
'Tis Miellerie I see! Let guardian angels all their sweetness shed, St. Preuxt, and Julia, wandering Now, And shower their influence o'er her favour'd head:
Seem to tell their tale of woe. May they protect her with peculiar care;
Ah! hapless, hapless pair!
Thy victims, Sensibility,
Thou, in the usurer's cell,
Didst ever scorn to dwell; Nor laugh at love, nor mock the lover's pains:
Where orphan's tears, and widow's fighs, But when the nymph these artless lines shall see, She'll spare one figh, one tear, to love and me.
For ever flow, for ever rise,
But flow and rise in vain;
With adamantine dulness arm'd,
By Conscience, nor by thee, alarm'd,
His every thought isagain. With eager haste my present woes destroy,
Oft have I woo'd thee, gentle power,
Many a solitary hour;
For who, among the tuneful train,
But has indulg'd the pleafing pain,
With energy refind;
Unknown to camps, to courts, and kings, AN IRREGULAR ODE,
Beneath the poet's roof she fings,
And loves the humble mind.
FFSPRING of the manly mind, In calm sequester'd scenes like these,
Where Contemplation fits at ease,
She rears her modest head;
With Gray, at evening's stillest hour,
• Near yonder ivy-mantled tower,'
Oft glides with silent tread.
But far from gilded pomp she flies,
Nor e'er in princely chamber lies:
Their bofoms, arm’d with triple steel,
The woes of others cannot feel;
Absorb'd alone in public care,
No private thought can enter there!
Save, when, with infant-blood imbru'd,
The tyrant Richard I trembling stood,
And heard each dying groan;
Pale Conscience then her femblance took,
His secret foul with horror fhook,
And mark'd him for her own.'
Not fo, when on th' Atlantic maing,
Conquest crown'd Britannia's arms, Tafted awhile the joys above,
'Midit horrid shrieks and dire alarms; And almost wept with tenderness and love. And heaps of warriors fiain;
* Paradise Lost. Lib. iv. Vide Speech beginning Line 358.
Vide Rousseau's Heloise.