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Chill Penury, with icy hands,

Has damp'd the glow of youthful fire. Enchain'd in its detested bands,

Canft thou to wealth, to fame aspire ? Yet tho' no roses round thee bloom,

To cheer life's thorny devious road; IF VIRTUE mingle with the gloom,

And light thee to her bleit abode ; Misfortune's storms in vain draw near,

Tho' frequent blaits affail thy soul, By Her supported, thou thalt hear,

Unmov'd, the tempeft o'er thee roll.



AILI spotless Virgin! free from fin!

Sweet, modest maiden, hail!
To gain whose person, tall and thin,

None e'er could yet prevail.
Your mopstick arms, from Aesh quite free,

We view with sweet delight;
Your waist, as thin as thin can be,

Enchants our wondering light! (In Aowing numbers, fain would I

Your wond'rous praises sing,
And let Imagination fly

On Fancy's soaring wing.)
With crabbed looks, and four grimace,

You mope like owl or bat,
And, with a most enchanting grace,

Purr like your tabby cat.
Your meagre face, drawn up so prim,

Holds every heart secure;
And should you chance but once to grin

'Tis death beyond a cure !

But here I ftop-for my poor brain

Allows the talk too hard : To celebrate your vestal train,

Requires an abler bard,


70th April, 1798.




TUNERAL cypress, O ye muses bring

To thade your votary's untimely bier, In fond remembrance of his virtues sing

Elegiac notes, and fing the heartfelt tear. Scarce fifteen fups their annual course had ran,

Scarce had thy vigour e'er begun to bloom, Ere thou, my friend, partook the fate of man,

And death consign’d thee to the dreary tomb, No more thalt thou the narrow path pursue

Where Wisdom's temple crowns the steep ascent, No more thy classic toils shalt thou renew,

(Joy in thine eye, and in thine heart content.) No more shalt thou relate a merry tale,

Nor brace thy limbs with salutary play ;
Muie is thy tongue ;- thy body once so halę

Now lies inhum'd amid its kindred clay.
As the poor lamb, whọ crops the flow'ry mcad,

Contented spends his inoffensive life,
Unconscious death his joys will soon impede,

And he a victim fall beneath the knife.
So young, fo blithe, fo guileless was thy heartz

When Summer last approach'd with rosy brown
Youth is no safeguard 'gainst the tyrant's dart,

It trikes, it wounds, it levels all below.

The time will be, when the same youthful hands,

That now indite these melancholy Atrains, Will be enchain'd like thine in icy bands,

And some kind friend will figh o'er my remains.--
When the last trump shall bid the dead arise,

Triumphant from beneath the grassy rod,
Then shall we meet again amid the skies,
And hallelujahs fing before th' Almighty God.
London, May 7th, 1798.




OW fair is the morning! the soft gales are blowing,

And Spring with fresh verdure enamels the ground, The itreams thro' the vale in ftill murmurs are Aowing,

And the bloffoms of May scatter fragrance around. Return, O Matilda ! I languish in sorrow;

How long shall I seek thee, and seek thee in vain ? Still pining in sadness, from morrow to morrow,

Till you hafte to these scenes of past pleasure again. See those hills crown’d with verdure, those sweet-smiling vallies,

The hut peeping forth from yon thick-woven trees ;--
Can the splendour of courts, or the glare of a palace,

Afford my Matilda such pleasure as these?
The streams which along the rich meadow meander,

The flowers, whose gay beauties embellish the plain ;~Ah! do they not tell thee no farther to wander,

But to turn to these scenes of thy childhood again? How oft have we stray'd o'er the heights of yon mountain,

Or wandered, at eve, thro' the shade of the grove: Our minds were as pure as the waves of the fountain,

Our souls were fincere, and our language was love. How oft have we rose, e'er the dawn of the morning

Had broke from the east, and illumin’d the skies To watch her first beams, yon tall summit adorning,

And the bright orb of day in fullifplendor arise.

O! say, are these moments forgotten for ever?

Doth no fond remembrance e'er call for a righ? The pangs which I suffer, 0 ! say, do they never

Cause the tear of compasiun to gleam in thine eye! A mournful adieu ! these enjoyments I've tasted;

Alas! my fair prospects have faded awayI wander about, feeble, languid, and wasted,

My spirits, my frame, finking fast to decay. Native village, adicu! O what pangs rend my bosom!.

Thy haunts, once so dear, I must visit no more ; The sweet bud of hope has been nipt in its blossoin,

And peace to my soul nought can ever restore ; When at length the green turf my cold ashes shall cover,

If by chance my Matilda should e'er wander near, Perhaps the will figh, when she thinks on her lover,

And the grave of Rosario be-wet with a tear.



ENEATH chill penury's inclement blaft,

Low lies the role, which hope indulgent gave;
Like that, is Friendship’s airy pageant paft,

And want, prophetic, bodes a wretched grave.
Now, in loud triumph swells the sanderous voice

Of Envy, on her swift pinions borne ;
But know, foul fiend, and cease thee to rejoice,

This breast can spurn and give thee scorn for scorn:
Vain is the rage of thy embattled tongue,

Thy ire indignant, or thy hell-fraught guile, (Though cold misfortune's iron bow be strung)

Where heaven-born fortitude imprints a smileYet, like a star, the friend who truly feels

Shall shine; (while thou shalt die beneath the test) And thy pale hand, Adversity, reveals

The generous flame ennobled in his breaft.



HERE yonder green willows fo pale,

Wave their leaves o'er the lake’s filver breas, Sleep Alma the young, and Rondale,

From the cares of the world now at reft.


Time was, when poor Alma was fair

As the lily that blooms in the wood, To Rondale, the brave, was she dear,

Ah! no maid was so fair or so good. Together full oft would they ftray,

Where slowly yon fream winds along, Or at morn, or at close of the day,

To hear the young nightingale's song. What time, when devoid of all care,

The hind seeks his cottage of reft, Rondale, with his Alma so fair,

Skim'd over the lake's filver breast.

The evening was calm and serene,

Low funk was the sun--and the gale Murmur'd softly the willows between,

And inflated the dark swelling fail,

As they glide o'er the surfacę so bright,

Rondale oft attunes his sweet flute; And the cygnets attend with delight,

To Alma's melodious lute,

When lo ! on a sudden the sky

Grows dark, and the winds loudly roar, The bittern with thrill-swelling cry,

Swiftly haftes to the far-distant Thore. The land now they seek,-but in vain !

All around them is gloomy and dark, Nor now o'er the wind-ruffled plain,

Alas! can they guide their small bark,

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