When, blest CUP, thy fires divine
Pierce thro' TIME's dark reign,
All the joys that once were mine
I snatch from DEATH again;
And, tho' oft fond anguish rise
O'er my melting mind,
Hope still starts to Sorrow's eyes-
And drinks the tear behind!

Ne'er, sweet CUP, was vot'ry blest
More thro' life than me;
And that life, with grateful breast,
Thou seest I give to thee!
'Midst thy rose-wreath'd nymphs I pass
Mirth's sweet hours away;
Pleas'd, while TIME runs thro' the glass
TO FANCY's brighter day!

Then, magic CUP, again for me
Thy pow'r creative try;
Again let hope-fed FANCY see
A Heav'n in BEAUTY's eye!
O, lift my lighten'd heart away

On PLEASURE's downy wing,
And let me taste that bliss TO-DAY
TO-MORROW MAY NOT BRING!

1800.

THREE IDYLS,

WRITTEN AT ANCHOR-CHURCH, DERBYSHIRE *,

BY THE REV. W. B. STEVENS,

AUTHOR OF INDIAN ODES, RETIREMENT, AND OTHER POEMS.

IDYL I.

Go festal bark, and Pleasure spread the sails!
Indulgent Trent reflects a lover's smile,
And woos with whispering reed such gentle gales,
As speed thy course, nor vex his wave the while.
Go by the marge of his fair winding vales

To yon
romantic cliff †, whose sainted pile
With all its waving oaks thy coming hails!
Exulting go-yet mindful that the fate

Of thousand hearts must on thy safety wait,
For never Cyprian bark could boast so fair a freight.

In an excursion down the River Trent.

+ Anchor-Church, a curious hermitage, belonging to Sir Robert Burdett, at Foremark in Derbyshire. It is situated about half a mile north of the house, amidst a chain of rocks, that hang abruptly over extensive meadows, on the margin of the river.

IDYL II.

ROMANTIC Cliff, in Superstition's day,

Whose chamber'd rock was scoop'd by holy hand! Where lost to earth (as Cloyster legends say)

His church and cell some woe-worn Anchoret plann'd! Yet chose he not a drear ungenial site;

See o'er that smooth expanse of pastures green, What giant mountains heave their distant height; While glitters, as he winds, bright Trent between! Those lone and lifted towers that awe the West, See frowning still o'er Mary's regal woes! And mark that graceful spire + above the crest Of you fair hill, where Mercia's kings repose! Religious cliffs! forgive, with other view, With vow less holy, if our pilgrim train Short sojourn sweet in thy recess renew,

Nor deen gay Pleasure's festal rites profane, Where Beauty's smile divine illumes thy rural reign!

IDYL III.

RETURN, lov'd bark, for lo, the falling day,
Throws shadowy light athwart Trent's osier'd edge,
While hastening from the dashing oar away,
The timid cygnets seek the sheltering sedge,
With misty veil o'erhung!-Ab, now return!-
Thy simple tent protects a dearer charge,
Than Cydnus own'd, when erst his trophied urn
Pour'd wavy splendour round that gorgeous barge,

Whose silver oars to lutes Idalian play'd,

Whose silken streamers Cupid' self unfurl'd, As down his tide the floating pomp convey'd The boast of love and rival of the world.

Tutbury Castle.

+ Repton

ARISTODEMUS.

A MONODRAMA.

ARGUMENT.

"The oracle had demanded a virgin victim of the blood-royal, as the price of Messenia's safety. The lot had fallen on the daughter of Lycurgus, who fled with her. Stimulated by ambition, Ariftodemus voluntarily offered his child: her betrothed husband, to save her life, asserted that she was pregnant; Ariftodemus immediately stabbed her, and bade the priest convince himself of the falsehood of this evasion. He obtained the crown; but the reflection, how he had obtained it, never could be obliterated; and, at length, he slew himself upon his daughter's tomb."

A Sepulchre. Time-Night.

YET once again-again at this dread hour,
When nature slumbers in serene repose,
And only murderers wake:-I come to pause
O'er thy cold grave, my child! Again I come,
Worn out with anguish, and the keenest pangs
That frenzying Memory knows. Ye dreadful fhades,
Ye sullen monumental groves of Death!

To

you I come; escap'd the wearying cares Of empire, and its loathsome pageantry— Sunk to the father, comes the wretched king.

O thou cold clay-once moulded by the hand
Of lavish Nature to perfection's form-
Once animate with life, and youth, and love;
Once my Earine! Again I come

To pour my sorrows forth and call to view

What this cursed hand destroyed; when, wild with rage, With savage superstition, and the lust

Of empire, I destroy'd the fairest work

Of bounteous heaven-blasted the opening bud
Of beauty-cast away the ties of man-

And murdered my dear child!

Oh, she was dear!

I loved her-how I loved her witness heaven!
Witness the eternal grief that gnaws my heart;
Witness the days in fruitless efforts worn,

To check the bitter thoughts that still will rise;
Witness the nights, when Memory-sleepless fiend-
Fevers my throbbing brain. Oh, she was dear!

For she was all a father's heart could wish:

Health blossom'd in her cheek, and in her voice
The soul of music breath'd; her sparkling eye
Spoke each emotion of her gentle soul,
Most eloquent. Messenia never saw
A maid more lovely than Earine-

A happier father, than her barbarous sire.

Now I can praise thy falshood, when too late,
Androcles!—I had sanction'd all his hopes.
He saw her eye beam love; he heard her voice
Breathe tenderness; and Nature bade him urge
The fond, false plea. Some fury, at that hour
Possess'd me-in her breast I plung'd the sword,
Gor'd her white bosom, though her fearful eyes