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ERE I to walk till eventide

Around the park,” says Ned, “ I still thou'd see yon son of pride,

With high-erected head.
It must be irksome, fack, I think."

“ It irksome,” drawls the wight, « No, no: for, troth it cannot sink,

The air is not so light.”
So have I seen a paper thing,

By children callid a kite,
Sail high in air, by fasten’d string,

Poiz'd in its tow'ring height.




TAIL! heavenly maid, my pensive mind

Invokes thy woe-fubduing strain, For there a Thield my soul can find,

Which subjugates each dagger'd pain. When beauty spurns the lover's sighs,

'Tis thine soft pity to inspire,
And cold indiff'rence vanquish'd lies

Beneath thy myrtle-vested lyre.
Oh ! could contention's dæmon hear
Thy seraph voice, his blood-lav'd spear

He'd drop, and own thy pow'r:
That smiling o'er our hapless land,
Sweet peace might call her hallow'd band,

Tu crown the feftal hour.




LOVE not thee, O! Night, when Ihiv’ring gales

Roar midst the foliage of the forest wide,
Or Cynthia 'neath a cloud her beauties hide,
And the mild splendour of the landscape veils.
Her filvery rays that tremble on the stream,
And gild the turrets of the mould'ring tow'r,
" And give a twilight luftre to the bow'r,
More lovely to my orbs of vision seem.
And if sweet Philomel her plaintive tale
Chaunts from the lonely copse, my bosom feels
A sympathetic penfive joy ; which heals
Awhile the wounds of care and sorrow pale ; -
The soul attun'd her grateful vespers pours,
And the CREATOR wise, of thee, O! Night, adores.
June 9, 1798.

J. S.




YOME, blooming seraph ! dove-like Peace!

Again revisit this our sea-girt shore,
Oh ! bid the British lion cease

To shake his tawny mane, and fiercely roar.-
Say, beauteous goddess! say,
Where dost thou now thy charms display?
In what sequefter'd cell

Dost thou now delight to dwell?
Long since hast thou forsook the eastern world,

Long since Britannia hath thy loss bewail'd,
Long since hath Mars his bloody Aag unfurl’d,

And carnage dire and misery prevail'd.-
Long since the trumpet's " war-denouncing” notes

Have made the foldier's heart with valour glow,
And cannons open'd wide their brazen throats

To pour destruction on the presling foe.

Do thou, sweet Peace ! these scenes dispel,
Let war's tumultuous din be heard no more,

Here, goddess ! ever deign to dwell,
And to thy once-lov'd ise thy bounteous gifts restore.

Here thy sacred olive rear
With fond maternal care,
So shall commerce spread her fails,
Wafted on auspicious gales;
So shall smiling plenty reign,
And deck the fields with waving grain;

So shall the arts and sciences increase,
And Albion's monarch spend his latter days in peace.
Lynn, June 1798.



Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,



In rhyming measure sang of luckless love, When debonnair I trod the meads along,

Nor musing fought the “ high o'er arching grove :" Then, eie the sun began his circling race,

I topp'd the hills t’inhale the “ breath of morn," Survey'd enraptured nature's verdant face,

Or tir’d, repos'd beneath the flow'ring thorn. At noon I join’d the merry jocund train

Of youths, whose hearts no turpitude annoy'd; Whose bosoms felt no agonizing pain,

From health impair’d, or innocence decoy'd. Then evening led me to yon antique hall,*

Where science nursd my young compeers to fame, Taught them to follow fair ambition's call, And hun the paths of infamy and shame.

* Beaumont Hall, near Redbourn, Herts.

Intent t' improve, and sed’lous to know,

I there revolv'd the tomes of useful lore, Nor saw remote those tides of varied woe,

Which TIME devolves from his exhaustless store, 1 fancied then, and fancy loves to sooth!

That when to man's " full zenith” I'd attain'd, Life's transient hours would glide serenely smooth,

And bounties crown my moments unrestrain’d. But fancy's fled-her colours are destroy’d,

Her smiles seductive now no more appear; Ingulph'd in dark oblivion's “ formless void,”

Like ietting suns they're gone--10 more my fight to cheer.


TOUR hours have fied since like a fiery orb

In fplendour lurid fank the lamp of day,
And eve breaks off abruptly into night;
Horror-clad the comes, spreading wild terror
O'er this nether world-Till now, ne'er heard I
Such warring elemental strife-Methinks
That lightning clad hell's genius rides the
Wild-wing of the storm - The earth's convuls’d, and
Ocean surges mingle with the clouds
Heard you that sound! twas the signal fad of
Wave-worn mariners, whose bark, impell’d
On with furious haste, against their efforts
Flies, to where the surge in dreadful thunders
Break upon the sounding shore

But dimly
Seen, behold yon female form, around whose
Head the vivid lightnings play, the while her
Locks loose flowing lalh her beauteous face:
'Tis Eleanor, she the blue-ey'd maid whom
Edward lov'd.

Threc annual suns have roll'd,
Since, for to reinstate th' injur'd fortune
Of a much-lov'd parent, he to eastern
Realms did fail - What bodings fatal rush'd on

Eleanor's mind! what secret terrors
Then usurp'd her soul, with what eloquence
(Love-taught) in tears against it did the plead,
Herself, her fortunes, all offering, him
To detain-He of noble soul, refus'd
In his own woes. the fair-one to involve;
Her sorrowing he left-

But the tidings
Of a grief-worn father waning to the
Tomb, now ask his quick return.

From morning's Dawn till night with murky veil enwraps the Ocean wide, does Eleanor watch Each coming fail, and in expectance fighs. Lait eve retiring, scarce on the pillow Had The thrown her, when, scar'd hy the fleeting Vision of the night the 'woke, and o'er her Heard the stormy wild uproar-Up the spiang—and soon to yon rock, which O’er the troublous deep impends, the flies, and Thro' the mists of moody night, assisted By the lightnings glare, behold yon shatter'd Vefsel driven by the furious storm, To fure destruction on yon pointed Crags-Hark! that thriek distress’d! she strikes ! she splits! And to the waves the wretched sailor AlingsBehold, on the boiling billows borne, a Youth, who with nervous arm 'gainst death contend; Eleanor sees him-Oh! 'tis Edward ! At what a fatal hour to meet-See, from The pendent rock the plunges in the deep, And clasps her Edward in the hour of death. In chaste embrace they ’mid the waves go down! Angels of bliss, their spotless spirits bear To where life's troublous storms are felt no more.

JOSEPHUS. Lynn, June 4, 1798.


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