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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.
ODE TO ANTIQUATED VIRGINITY.
Sweet, modest maiden, hail!
None e'er could yet prevail.
We view with sweet delight;
Enchants our wondering light! (In Aowing numbers, fain would I
Your wond'rous praises sing,
On Fancy's soaring wing.)
You mope like owl or bat,
Purr like your tabby cat.
Holds every heart secure;
'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.
ON THE DEATH OF A SCHOOL-FELLOW,
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 ;
Now lies inhum'd amid its kindred clay.
Contented spends his inoffensive life,
And he a victim fall beneath the knife.
When Summer last approach'd with rosy brown
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.--
Triumphant from beneath the grassy rod,
STANZAS TO MATILDA.
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 ;--
Afford my Matilda such pleasure as these?
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.
Low lies the role, which hope indulgent gave;
And want, prophetic, bodes a wretched grave.
Of Envy, on her swift pinions borne ;
This breast can spurn and give thee scorn for scorn:
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.
RONDALE AND ALMA.
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,