SELECT POMES.

I no longer may refift them;
All, to force my hand combine;
And to-morrow to thy rival

This weak frame I must refign.

Yet think not thy faithful Zaida
. Can furvive fo great a wrong;
Well my breaking heart affures me
That my woes will not be long,

Farewel then, my dear Alcanzor !
Farewel too my life with thee!
Take this fcarf, a parting token;
When thou wear'ft it think on me.

Soon, lov'd youth, fome worthier maiden
Shall reward thy generous truth;
Sometimes tell her how thy Zaida
Died for thee in prime of youth!-

To him, all amaz'd, confounded,
Thus he did her woes impart;
Deep he figh'd, then cried, O Zaida!
Do not, do not, break my heart!

Canft thou think I thus will lofe thee?
Can't thou hold my love fo fmall
No! a thousand times I'll perish !---
My curt rival too fhall fall.

Q3

*73

174

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SELECT POEMS.

Canft thou, wilt thou yield thus to them?
O break forth, and fly to me!
This fond heart fhall bleed to fave thee,
These fond arms fhall fhelter thee.

'Tis in vain, in vain, Alcanzor,
Spies furround me, bars secure ;
Scarce I fteal this laft dear moment,

While my damfel keeps the door.

Of death beats flow! heard ye the note profound

It paufes now; and now, with rifing knell,
Flings to the hollow gale its fullen found.

F

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L

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In

Yes; Coventry is dead. Attend the ftrain.
Daughters of Albion! ye that, light as air,
So oft have tripp'd in her fantastic train,

With hearts as gay, and faces half as fair:

For fhe was fair beyond your brightest bloom
(This envy owns, fince now her bloom is fled ;)
Fair as the forms that wove in fancy's loom,
Float in light vifion round the poet's head,

Whene'er with foft ferenity fhe fmil'd,

Or caught the orient blufh of quick furprise, How sweetly mutable, how brightly wild, The liquid luftre darted from her eyes!

Each look, each motion, wak'd a new-born grace That o'er her form its tranfient glory caft: Some lovelier wonder foon ufurp'd the place, Chas'd by a charm ftill lovelier than the laft.

That bell again! It tells us what she is ;

On what she was, no more the strain prolong; Luxuriant fancy paufe! an hour like this Demands the tribute of a ferious fong.

Maria claims it from that fable bier,

Where cold and wan the flumb'rer refts her head.

In ftill small whispers to reflection's ear

She breaths the folemn dictates of the dead.

O catch the awful notes, and lift them loud!

Proclaim the theme by fage, by fool, rever'd; Hear it, ye young, ye vain, ye great, ye proud!

'Tis nature speaks, and nature will be heard.

Yes; ye shall hear, and tremble as you hear,
While, high with health, your hearts exulting leap ;:
Ee'n in rhe midst of pleasure's mad career,
The mental monitor fhall wake and weep!

For fay, than Coventry's propitious star
What brighter planet on your births arose?
Or gave of fortune's gifts an ampler share,
In life to lavish, or by death to lofe?

Early to lofe, while, borne on bufy wing,

Ye fip the nectar of each varying bloom; Nor fear, while baking in the beams of Spring, The wint❜ry form that fweeps you to the tomb;

Think of her fate! revere the heav'nly hand

That led her hence, though foon, by steps fo flow; Long at her couch Death took his patient stand, And menac'd oft, and oft with-held the blow:

To give reflection time, with lenient art,

Each fond delufion from her foul to steal; Teach her from folly peaceably to part,

And wean her from a world the lov'd fo well.

Say, are ye fure his mercy fhall extend

To you folong a span? Alas, ye figh!

Make then, while yet ye may, your God your friend,
And learn with equal ease to fleep or die!

Nor think the mufe, whose fober voice ye hear,
Contracts with bigot frown her fullen brow;
Cafts round religion's orb the mists of fear,

Or fhades with horrors what with fimiles should glow.

No; fhe would warm you with seraphic fire,
Heirs as ye are of Heaven's eternal day;
Would bid you boldly to that heav'n afpire,
Not fink and flumber in your cells of clay.

Know, ye were form'd to range yon azure field,
In yon ætherial founts of blifs to lave:
Force then, fecure in faith's protecting shield,
The fting from death, the vict'ry from the grave!

Is this the bigots rant? Away ye vain,

Your hopes, your fears, in doubt, in dulness steep; Go footh your fouls in fickness, grief, or pain, With the fad folace of eternal fleep!

Yet will I praife you, triflers as ye are,

More than those preachers of your fav'rite creed,
Who proudly fwell the brazen throat of war,
Who from the phalanx, bid the battle bleed.