Of hir array the form gif I fal write,
Toward her golden haire, and rich atyre,
In fretwife couchit wt perlis quhite,

And grete balas lemyng as the fyre,
Wt mony ane emerant and faire faphire,
And on hir hede a chaplet frefch of hewe,
Of plumys partit rede, and quhite, and blewe.
Full of quaking spangis bryt as gold,
Forgit of fchap like to the amorettis,
So new, fo freich, so pleasant to behold,

The plumys eke like to the floure jonettis,
And other of fchap, like to the floure jonettis;
And, above all this, there was, wele I wote,
Beautee eneuch to mak a world to dote.
About hir neck, quhite as the fyre amaille,
A gudlie cheyne of fmall orfeverye,
Quhare by there hang a ruby, wtout faille
Like to ane hert fchapin verily,

That, as a spark of lowe so wantonly

Semyt birnyng upon hir quhite throte,

Now gif there was gud pertye, God it wote.
And for to walk that frefche Mayes morowe,
Ane huke she had upon her tiffew quhite,
That gudelaire had not bene fene to forowe,
As I fuppofe, and girt fche was alyte;
Thus halflyng lowfe for hafte, to fuich delyte
It was to fee her zouth în gudelihed,

That for rudenes to fpeke thereof I drede.'

ART. IX. The Peafant of Auburn; or, the Emigrant. A Poem. Infcribed to the Earl of Carlisle. By T. Coombe, D. D. 15. 4to. Elmfly.

THIS little

poem is a fort of continuation of Dr. Goldsmith's Deferted Village, and feems intended to diffuade our countrymen from émigrating to America: a very laudable intention, and well worthy every effort of every benevolent divine.

With respect to the poetical merit of the prefent performance, evidently the production of a fenfible and a feeling heart, little can be faid in it's favour; the verfification is in general smooth, but there are very few marks of great genius or originality. Indeed, though the whole poem is comprized in about two hundred lines, we question much if we could not felect at least twenty evidently borrowed from Dr. Goldfmith's Deferted Village or Traveller,and other modern poems.

Few of thefe inftances, however, appear in the following extracts.

Ah, me! the words our pious Preacher spoke, When first to him my mournful mind I broke

Edwin, (he faid, with looks of kind difmay)
Earth's meteor hopes but glitter to betray.
Thou canst not fly from God's all-chaft'ning hand,
Storms fweep the ocean, difcord blafts the land:
No change of climate can reverfe our doom,
Life's various roads all center in the tomb!-
Thus the meek fage my rash refolve repreft,
Whilft tears of pity bath'd his hoary breast.
Oh! had I liften'd to his wife alarms,
Then had I died at home in friendship's arms.
Twelve tedious weeks we plough'd the wintry
main,

And hop'd the port; but hop'd, alas! in vain;
Till, left of heaven, and prefs'd for daily bread,
Each gaz'd at each, and hung the fickly head:
Two little fons, my hope, my humble pride,
Too weak to combat, languifh'd, wail'd, and died;
Stretch'd on the deck the breathlefs cherubs lay
As buds put forth in April's ftormy day.
Not Emma's felf remain'd my woes to cheer,
Borne with her babes upon a watery bier:
Five days the ftruggled with the fever's fire;
The fixth fad morn beheld my faint expire..
Thefe trembling lips her lips convulfive preft,
Thefe tremblinghands fuftain'd her finking breaft;
Thefe trembling hands discharg'd each mournful
rite,

Sooth'd her last pang, and feal'd her dying fight,
To the fame deep their dear remains were given,
Their mingled fpirits wing'd their flight to heaven.
Surviv'd the wreck that whelm'd my all befide,
Snatch'd from the peace of death, and loathingday,
On bleak Henlopen's coaft the mourner lay.
Thefe aged arms her languid body bore
Through the rude breakers to that ruder shore.
Mercy, fweet Heaven! and did the pitying storm
Spare but for deeper ills that angel form!
Bleft had we funk unheeded in the wave,
And mine and Lucy's been one common grave.
But I am loft, a worn-out, ruin'd man,
And fiends compleat what tyranny began.
"Much had I heard, from men unus'd to feign,
of this new world, and Freedom's gentle reign:
'Twas fam'd that here, by no proud mafter fpurn'd,
The poor man ate fecure the bread he earn'd;
That verdant vales were fed by brighter ftreams
Than my own Medway, or the filver Thames;
Fields without bounds fpontaneous fruitage bore,
And peace and virtue blefs'd the favour'd shore.
Such were the hopes which once beguil'd my care,
Hopes form'd in dreams, and baseless as the air."

One only daughter, in life's vernal pride,

Here, as I trace my melancholy way,
The prowling Indian fnuffs his wonted prey:
Ha! fhould I meet him in his dusky round-
Late in thefe woods I heard his murderous found
Still the deep war-whoop vibrates on mine ear;
And ftill I hear his tread, or feem to hear.
Hark! the leaves ruftle! what a fhriek was there!
'Tis he! 'tis he! his triumphs rend the air.
And chafe the murderer to his gory cell.
Hold, coward heart! I'll answer to the yell,
Savage!-but, oh! I rave-o'er yonder wild,
E'en at this hour, he drives my only child;
She, the dear fource and foother of my pain,
My tender daughter, drags the captive chain.”

POETRY,

POETRY.

* See, Edwin's Farewel Epistle to Delia, page 210%

OULD Virtue's power repel the hand of
Death,

COUL

Could Goodnefs chafe the fickly fiend away; Still might Ophelia draw unfullied breath,

Nor claim the fad, the heart-diffolving lay.

But, ah! ftern Fate not Virtue's pow'r can move,
Nor Goodness foothe the fiend with ghaftly mien:
The friend we cherish, and the maid we love,
When these command, must quit the vital scene.

Awhile these famples of th' Eternal Mind
(SoHeaven ordains )on earth with patience roam;
To leave regret and melting fighs behind,

When kindred angels call a fister home.

Such was Ophelia-(from our scene retired)—
Let truth, let worth, revere the facred name:
Her leaft ambition was to be admir'd;

And all that pomp can give, her least of fame.

No pride, fave noble, generous pride, she knew;
Patient fhe heard the tale of virtuous woe;
The rooted thorn from Sorrow's bofom drew,

And bade the tear of Anguish ceafe to flow.

Ne'er did Dejection íhun her pure abode,'

Nor Mifery fly infulted from her door;
Her ftream of wealth in Bounty's channel flow'd,
And pour'd the tide of plenty on the Poor.
Thefe fhall the tear of grateful mem'ry give,
Sincere and felt as is the Mufe's ftrain;
Long in the breast of Anguish shall fhe live,
But ne'er to fhed a healing balm again!
Yet, O! ye Poor, who ftreaming forrows blend,
An equal hope in generous Petre view;
To him her fame, her virtues all defcend,
And all her tender charities to you.

For him no more can Pleafure find a charm;
Nor Peace allure him to her flowery feats:
Heart-piercing woes ftern Reafon's power difarm,
And life's red tide in wild diforder beats.
Deep groves alone receive his figh profound,
Where dew-drops mingle with the falling tear;
Where poplars ftrew their yellow leaves around,
As if to grace Ophelia's filent bier.

The gentle partner of his fond embrace

In mournful cadence answers every figh: His faithful dog, that led him to the chace, Explores the grief that trembles in his eye. Ophelia's name is whisper'd through the fhade,

Where flowerets droop, or all unheeded bloom; While the fad fwain, to many a penfive maid, Repeats the verfe that's grav'd upon her tomb.

G

O, gentle Mufe, and tell the faddeft tale
That e'er was heard in leafy bower or dale;
Thy plaintive founds her liftening car fhall fill:
Blow foft, ye zephyrs; and, ye winds, be still!

Go, plaintive Mufe, to lovely **'s ear,
Heave the warm figh, and shed the tender tear:
There, to the lovely nymph, in fofteft ftrain,
Go, gently whisper all thy mafter's pain!
In choiceft words, which streams of tweetners fill,
Call Heaven to witnefs how I love her ftill!
(Oh! had fome power endued thy faltering tongue,
With pleafing accents foft perfuafion hung;
Then might I hope to win the lovely maid,
And foftly call her to the rural fhade!)

Tell her, for me, in vain the wanton gales
Shed fcented odours o'er the blooming vales;
From tree to tree the vocal warblers play,
Bewail their little loves in tuneful lay;
To hear sweet Philomel in fong complain,
And trembling Echo warble back the ftrain:
Ah! these no more my troubled foul delight,
But each gay fcene is wrapp'd in gloomy night;
For ever, now, I'm bath'd in falling tears;
No joy enlivens, and no pleasure chears.

Hope flatter'd once-alas! 'tis now confum'd; Like flowers that wither ere they well have bloom'd?

Thus oft, emerging from the shades of night,
Laughs rofy Morn, and fpreads a glittering light;
When darken'd clouds foon fhade the flattering
fcene,

And lightnings dart along th' enamell'd green.

Ah, fatal day! that day of fhort delight,
When firft her charms entranc'd my ravish'd fight!
Such charms mine eyes had ne'er beheld before,
Which maids may envy, but mankind adore!
Say, gentle Mufe, what beauty did unfold
That lovely form, by language yet untold!
Those piercing eyes, which sweetly oft you'vefung;
Thofe rofy lips, and that enchanting tongue;
Thofe lovely treffes, and that dimpled smile;
Those fyren looks, that might the heavens beguile,
That robb'd my heart of eafe, my eyes of sleep;
Firft taught me how to love, but now-to weep.
No trees o'erfhade the lily-bofom'd vale,
No roles wanton to the breathing gale,
No flow rets open to the morning rays,
No bubbling fountain through the valley plays;
But knows the torments of my troubl'd breast,
What cares confume me, and what pains infeft!

Oft, when I fleep, and in the darkfome night,
Her beauteous image glides before my fight-

Why

Why flow thofe tears? (the lovely phantom cries;)
Why break foft foothing reft with endless fighs?
Complaint is vain-thy hopeless with confine;
The much-lov'd ** never must be thine!-
Ah, stay, sweet shade!-I wake, and fondly cry→→→
Once more regale my fight before I die :
Thy prefence only can my grief dispel,
Or fnatch my spirit from it's mortal cell!-
It comes no more. But now I wake to grieve;
Fresh flow my tears, and fighs my bofom heave.

Ye violet banks, that oft my limbs have borne;
Ye winding ftreams, that learnt of me to mourn;
Ye cooing doves, that tune your plaintive lay;
Ye leafy fhades, where love has made me stray:
For her bloom fair; melodious be your strains;
Whilft I'm condemn'd to never-ceafing pains!

Let guardian angels all their sweetness fhed,
And fhower their influence o'er her favour'd head:
May they protect her with peculiar care;
She all that's lovely, innocent, and fair!--

Now, plaintive Mufe, go tell the mournful tale;
Alone to her thy mafter's name reveal;
Her tender heart will liften to thy ftrains,
Nor laugh at love, nor mock the lover's pains:
But when the nymph these artless lines fhall fee,
She'll fpare one figh, one tear, to love and me.
If at thy tale the tear of pity flows,
Or tender fighs a chearing ray difclofe;
If groundless fears have robb'd my foul of rest,
And needlefs fadnefs fill'd my fimple breaft;
With eager hafte my present woes destroy,
Difpel my fears with radiant ftreams of joy.

SENSIBILITY.

AN IRREGULAR ODE.

B

NON TU CORPUS ERAS SINE PECTORE.

FFSPRING of the manly mind,

OFF

And female tenderness combin'd;

If e'er I bow'd beneath thy fway,
Or felt thy animating ray,
Still thy true votary let me be,
Angelic Senfibility!

Thee, with weeping willows crown'd,
Pity, and her train, furround;
The Graces and the Loves are thine;
The Mufe, and Mufic's power divine:
At thy birth all nature fmil'd,

For thou art Nature's favourite child.

The fullen Paffions yield to thee,
Envy-Pride-Mifanthropy:
In fofteft fetters thou doft bind
Rage, the tempeft of the wind.
Satan himself, in Eden's bower,
Felt remorfe, and own'd thy power;
View'd our Firft Parents with delight,
Melted with pity at the fight;
Tafted awhile the joys above,

And almoft wept with tenderness and love.

Thou ample room didft find
In Yorick's liberal mind;
That mind, moft exquifitively fraught
With nature, fancy, wit, and thought:
Alas! he charms no more,

"Who fet the table in a roar !'
No more Maria's tale fhall move
His tender heart with generous love;
No more Le Fevre's pangs be felt
By him, who taught our kindred fouls to melt.

But, ah! what fairy fcenes I view!
My ravifh'd foul what mighty magic charms!
To think the fweet delufion true,
My fond imagination warms.

'Tis Miellerie I fee!

St. Preuxt, and Julia, wandering flow,
Seem to tell their tale of woe.
Ah! haplefs, hapless pair!
Thy victims, Senfibility,
Too exquifite to bear.

Thou, in the ufurer's cell,
Didft ever fcorn to dwell;
Where orphan's tears, and widow's fighs,
For ever flow, for ever rise,

But flow and rife in vain;
With adamantine dulnefs arm'd,
By Confcience, nor by thee, alarm'd,
His every thought is-gain.

Oft have I woo'd thee, gentle power,
Many a folitary hour;

For who, among the tuneful train,
But has indulg'd the pleafing pain,
With energy refin'd;

Unknown to camps, to courts, and kings,
Beneath the poet's roof fhe fings,

And loves the humble mind.

In calm fequefter'd scenes like thefe,
Where Contemplation fits at eafe,

She rears her modest head;
With Gray, at evening's ftilleft hour,
Near yonder ivy-mantled tower,'
Oft glides with filent tread.
But far from gilded pomp fhe flies,
Nor e'er in princely chamber lies:
Their bofoms, arm'd with triple steel,
The woes of others cannot feel;
Abforb'd alone in public care,
No private thought can enter there!

Save, when, with infant-blood imbru'd,
The tyrant Richard‡ trembling stood,

And heard each dying groan;
Pale Confcience then her femblance took,
His fecret foul with horror fhook,
And mark'd him for her own.'

Not fo, when on th' Atlantic main§,
Conqueft crown'd Britannia's arms,
'Midft horrid fhrieks and dire alarmsy
And heaps of warriors flain;

Paradife Loft. Lib. iv. Vide Speech beginning Line 358.

Vide Rouffeau's Heloife.

T

Clofe