Original Poetry.

Lines written at the grave of an intimate Friend. "The musick was like the memory of joys that are past; "Pleasant-but melancholy to the soul."

OSSIAN.

DEAR is the memory of departed pleasures,
Pleasing, yet melancholy to the mind,
Like distant musick, stealing in dying measures,
Or slowly swelling on the passing wind.

Dear is the turf where a dear friend reposes,
Once the companion of far happier hours,
Pleasing to linger there-as day-light closes-
To linger still-tho' round the tempest low'rs,

And the shrill blast sweeps o'er the ice-clad meadows,
Wildly responsive to each rising sigh,

And gleaming moon-light, and dark fleeting shadows
Alternate, o'er the chequer'd landscape fly

In swift succession as the joys-and sorrows—
The hopes-and fears-which human life divide,
And gild our yesterdays—and cloud our morrows,
As o'er the varying vale of tears they glide:

Darkness o'er-clouds my soul-and shall there never
One ray of beauty break the midnight gloom?
Shall love and friendship sleep in death forever?
Nor virtue burst the winter of the tomb ?

Soft in the west, the vesper star is beaming,
Radiant it broke, yon parted cloud beneath;
Thus shall the righteous shine-from earth redeemed,
Yea-thus triumphant burst the shroud of death.

Dear is the memory of departed pleasures-
Dearer, the hope sublime of joys on high!
Oh! harp of Zion! tune thy loftiest measures,
And raise thy swelling notes above the sky.

Sing of the voice that breaks the leaden slumbers
Of death and hell—the voice that calls "come forth;"
Sing of the rising saints-the countless numbers

Of the redeem'd-cruding from south and north!

Sing heav'nly harp-yet stay-my feeble fingers-
My earth stain'd lips profane thy sacred chords,
Yet would I listen still, as o'er thee lingers
Sounds, inexpressible by mortal words.

And list'ning-lose the feebler voice of nature—
And list'ning-with the strains divinely soar―
Ev'n to the throne of Christ-the Mediator!

In whom-his friends shall meet-to part no more.

Rhode Island, February 10, 1815.

EURIC

то

IF pity can thy bosom warm,
Or mercy dwell in that fair form,
Which all the graces have combined
To render beauteɔus as thy mind;
Recall thy harsh decree!

If constancy, whose vestal flame,
Unchanged by time, is still the same,
Not even extinguished by despair,
Can plead its merits to the fair;
Oh! let it plead for me!

If that devotion which would place
Thee next to Heaven's eternal grace,
And prize thine, next to Heaven's love,
Can lady's heart to passion move;

Oh! let it soften thine!

So, lost in love, oppress'd by grief,
'Midst social mirth, a short relief,

The sorrowing heart may know;
But when to lonely thought retired,
It mocks the joy by mirth inspired,
And droops to lasting woe!

UUORES.

Selected Poetry.

Parnassus, 20th June, 1814.

FROM A LONDON PAPER.

IT was customary in our publick schools, for the scholars to sing the ancient song of "Dulce Domum," previous to the vacation. This performance I lately attended with great pleasure at Winchester; whether the custom is observed in other schools, I cannot tell. The spirit and beauty of this celebrated composition, is acknowledged by every scholar, and perhaps some of your young literary friends may be induced, during the vacation, to favour us with a translation.

Concinamus, O Sodales,

Your's,

ADVENA

Eja, quid silemus?

Nobile Canticum,

Dulce melos domum,

Dulce domum resonemus.

CHORUS.

Domum, domum, dulce domum,

Domum, domum, dulce domum,

Dulce, dulce, dulce domum,

Dulce domum, resonemus.

Appropinquat, ecce! felix
Hora gaudiorum,

Post grave tædium

Advenit omnium

Meta petita laborum.

CHORUS

Musa, libros mitte, fessa,

Mitte pensa dura,

Mitte negotium,

Jam datur otium,

Me, mea, mittito cura.

CHORUS.

Ridet annus, prata rident,

Nosque rideamus,

Jam repetit domum,

Daulias advena,

Nosque domum repetamus.

CHORUS.

Heus, Rogere, fer caballos,

Eja! nunc eamus,

Limen amabile

Matris et oscula,

Suaviter et repetamus.

CHORUS.

Concinamus ad penates,

Vox et audiatur,

Phosphore, quid jubar,

Segnius emicans,

Gaudia nostra moratur.

CHORUS,

THE following Ode, was written by Cowley, upon the idea of two Angels playing a game of Chess.

It was said by Plautus,

"We are but Tennis balls for the Gods to play withall, "

which they strike away at last, and call for new ones.

When

the fates lay hold on man, he is confounded and loses his wits. Fatality dazzles the sight of his judgment. So it happens that the designs and counsels of the man that is to perish, are corrupt.