ELEGY

To the River Derwent, at Matlock Bath,
9th September, 1802.

BY EYLES IRWIN, ESQ.

NYMPH of the Moor! who first to Phoebus' ray On the fam'd PEAK unveil'st thy sapphire breast; Thro' sparry dells, unnoted, win'st thy way,

"Till DARLEY'Ss vale embrace his welcome guest:
O! while thy tide on CHATSWORTH throws a grace
Unknown to all his costly works of art;
The eye of taste, with rapture, kens thy race,
Which nor his fountains nor cascades impart.

On MARY'S * woes while Pity haply dwells,
Who there some hours of blighted life beguil'd;
Attention catches those romantic spells,

Which, to his lot, a TALLARD + reconcil'd

Mary Queen of Scots was kept some time at Chatsworth, then the property of the Earl of Shrewsbury. A suite of apartments, and the bed in which she slept, are still pointed out, as those inhabited by that persecuted Princess.

† Marshal Tallard visited Chatsworth during his parole in England after the battle of Blenheim. A neat and apposite compli anent to its beauties has been attributed to him.

How shall the Muse the fugitive reprove,

Who boasts her sex's charms, without their leaven; Fond thro' a gay admiring world to move,

While CHATSWORTH lacks the influence of his

DEVON!

So, on our Parents' sense, when first the view
Of Eden burst, array'd in Spring's fresh green,
Faint was its odour-dead its vivid hue,

"Till smil'd abroad the charmer of the scene!

Thy banks how verdant, as thou linger'st there—
And, when enforc'd to quit the magic bounds,
A fertile soil divides, thy wealth to share,
Where Pan and Ceres cheer the cultur❜d grounds.

Hence noisy pleasures; and the giddy throng!
Who Folly's rites, in haunts sequester'd hail;
Be Fashion mute !- while DERWENT steals along
In silence, eloquent, thro' Matlock's dale!

Or if a sound the war derer's step arrest,
As o'er thy woody precipice he strolls;
Where Nature woos him, by enchantment drest-
Illume his visions with the lay of Bowles!

Thy poet, MATLOCK! still alive to fame,

For whom no more shall Flora's painter burnWeep, DERWENT! weep thy sage's attic name, And bear this tribute to thy DARWIN'S urn

While lives the page botanic, dear to taste,
Melodious cadence, images sublime,
Shall Science cherish his descriptions chaste,
And Fancy banquet on the nectar'd rhime

By Arkwright train'd, the Arts enrich thy tide;
The Loves and Muses sanction thy renown;
Whate'er from Beauty beams is still thy pride,
And Genius' choicest gifts thy offspring crown!

IMITATION OF MARTIAL.

BETWEEN the pulpit and the bar

While thus you hesitate and trifle,
You're growing older than old Parr :—
Johnny, indeed you waste your life ill.

If toward the church your zeal draws strong,
Three curacies are just now vacant :
If not, the law goes on ding dong-

Rouse up, and try what you can make on't.

Let us, at least, an effort see.—

Be something-any thing, for money!
Zounds! while you're doubting what to be,
You're likely to be nothing, Johnny.

N. B. HALHED, ESQ.

*The cotton-mills of the late Sir Richard Arkwright, at Matlock, Bath, are a monument of the ingenuity and spirit of Britons. The profits of this magnificent undertaking are said to produce 70,000l. annually to his family!

ODE TO LOVE.

BY THE LATE REV. J. WALTERS, A. B.

YOUNG Love, no more I sing thy praise,
Thou tyrant of my early days,
Descending with ungenerous art
To wound a youth's unguarded heart,
Nor seldom wont to bring with thee
Sleepless, bleeding Jealousy.

Now if, thus plac'd beyond thy reach,
What fancy prompts, or books can teach
With curious thirst my mind enquires,
And the pale lamp too soon expires;
Now on my brow sit thought and care,
Laugh at thy arts, and drive thee far.
My cautious heart denies thee room,
Tho' bold with Solitude thou come.

Or when I follow thro' the shades
Echo and Silence, sister Maids,
And every Harmony that roves
The quiet of poetic groves;
If the blest Muse hath sprinkled me
With holy drops of Castaly,
With thee I pass the sportive day,
And with thy flames securely play,
As whilom thou, in courts above,
Handling the fiery bolts of Jove.

ODE.

THE RETREAT OF FANCY.

BY THE LATE REV. W. B. STEVENS.

THE phantom glories move no more;
The spell is broke-the charm is o'er-
Away the shadowy sorceries fly,
That stole their life from Fancy's eye;
Mark, as her flowery step retreats,
Mark, as her lyre restrains its fairy tone,

The angel host, and bliss-embowering seats,
And gleams from Inspiration's heaven are flown;
Where, gazing once, entranc'd Attention caught
His rich-adorned rhyme, and soul-enchanting
thought.

The credulous Hopes in mockery crown'd,
Aspiring Errors vaunting round,
Mourn o'er the pageant, as she flies
With wings involv'd in misty skies;

The mind that lov'd her languid lay
Exhausted of each fair and manly aim,
Pines in the shades of apathy away;

A dream, a wish at best, her lifeless claim;

While Youth laments the blossoms of his prime By Folly's rash hand cropt, ere yet matur'd byTime