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She clasp'd her hands-she rais'd her eyes,
In bitterest anguish of despair;

Wild was the ocean-dark the skies!

No hope remain'd-no help was near!

Down-down she plung'd-The dashing wave
Receiv'd her on its murmuring breast;
And, rolling back, the gulfy grave
Compos'd her struggling heart to rest!

TO A FRIEND.

HER image, who enslaves my mind,
Urge me no longer to discover;
Fain would I sing, but ah! I find,
The Bard can ill express the Lover.

Yet trust me he whose happier skill,

For terms could ransack earth, air, ocean; Might shew, perhaps, more wit at will, But less of genuine emotion.

Though Art the florid phrase deny,

Yet Truth can never want expression,
For that best language of the eye,
Is still in her's, and Love's possession.

T. F.

ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE, OXON.

STANZAS,

ON THE

DEATH OF MISS H. E. HAY *.

BY ADELINE.

HAIL, awful dwelling of the silent dead!
Where the wild weeds of desolation wave † :
Here the meek sufferer rests her drooping head,
On the cold pillow of the peaceful grave.

To Him that haunts this proud sepulchral dome,
Yon wandering planet of the midnight skies,
Seems Love's pure torch to guide the pilgrim home,
Where the lov'd treasure of his bosom lies.

* Daughter of the Rev. George Hay Drummond.

The Chapel of Holyrood-house, now a pile of ruins.

O'er
yon
cold sod to Love and Nature dear,
That shrouds the beauteous tenant of the grave,
Shall pale Remembrance shed the bitter tear,
And from the dust the form of beauty save,

Oh! powers of Memory! it is your's alone,
While beams of Paradise the grave illume,
To bid the heart a transient rapture own,
And call bright visions from nocturnal gloom.

In vivid tints like Heaven's etherial bow,
Is sainted Virtue imag'd in the breast,

While Death's dim clouds in Faith's refulgent glow,
Float like the shadows from the dawning east.

Yet shrinking Nature, o'er yon sacred urn,
Shall muse on scenes of bliss for ever gone;
And o'er the ashes of the dead shall mourn,
While deep and low congenial tempests moan.

When hopeless woe corrodes the aching breast,
More dear the wailings of the wintry storm,
When sinks the dim moon in the darken'd west,
Then vernal bowers in summer colouring warm.

Oh! hear ye winds that sweep the vaulted sky,
O'er yon grey towers, oh pour your cadence wild;
And bid the blast like dying Evening sigh,

For there a Father guards his slumb'ring child.

What tho' the storms that chill the changing year, Wave their dark pinions o'er the humid mound; Yet silver dew, pure as an angel's tear,

Shall gem the wild weeds as they spring around.

No blushing bands yon mould'ring arch entwine,
Where the lone night-bird wakes his cries of woe;
But there the wreaths of new fall'n snow shall shine,
Pure as the innocence that sleeps below.

Stranger approach, if e'er thy bosom knew
The sacred influence of an angel's smile;
When thy lov'd hand wip'd the heart-chilling dew
From the sweet face that cheer'd consuming toil.

Approach, for thou art hallowed by woe,

Oh come, and gaze upon yon holy tomb;
While pensive Memory's vivid visions glow,
And her pale fires the shades of Death illume.

O'er the green turf that wraps the blissed clay,
Shall the light wing of youthful Fancy wave,
And chaunt at eve, beneath the lunar ray,
The dirge of Sorrow o'er Eliza's grave,

EDINBURGH, DEC. 4, 1802.

TO ADELINE.

On receiving from her the foregoing Elegy, on the Decease of a beloved Daughter.

АH! little thought the subject of thy song,
Sublime, yet plaintive, and though tender, strong;
When the sweet warblings of thy fairy lay *,
The pain of sickly languor charm'd away;
That to herself so soon it should be given,
To join the holy "minstrelsy of Heaven."
Thy friendly Muse should chaunt the funeral verse,
And scatter flow'rets o'er her virgin hearse.
Her Spirit thanks thee-for methinks I hear
Angelic sounds thus vibrate on mine ear.—
"Blest be the maid, who to a sister's urn,

"For incense brings the vivid "words that burn;"
"What though her heart, by sympathetic glow,
"May feel a pang the selfish never know;
"Yet e'en from Sorrow can her polish'd mind,
"A pensive pleasure draw by love refin'd;
"And when delightful themes her thoughts employ,
"Pure is the transport, exquisite the joy.
"O henceforth may she muse on such alone,
"Partake of other's bliss, and double all her own."

G. H. D.

*To Oberon, &c.-which had been perused with great delight, especially these two lines;

"To hear the minstrelsy of heaven

"Float on the breezes of the even."

It will be seen that this expression here borrowed, refers to a much higher order of beings.

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