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STANZAS,

WRITTEN NEAR THE GRAVE OF MARIA.

NO

OW sweetly o'er yon eastern hill,

The dawn of morning streaks the skies, Wake, shepherd, from thy Numbers still,

And from thy soft repose arise. Winter, with all his frozen train,

Hath fed upon the northern blast; And genial Spring o'er all the plain,

Her mantle green again hath caft. And see, the tender buds appear,

The blossoms shed their sweets around, Their fimple heads the snow-drops rear,

And the pale primrose decks the ground. Then Ihepherd rise, and come away,

And I will tell thee all my woe, Why forrow darkens all my day,

And why my tears for ever flow. On me, bright nature smiles no more

Tho' Spring in all her charms is dreft ; Tho' fhe displays her gayeit store,

Deep melancholy chills my breast. Dost thou not see yon cypress glade,

Whose boughs wave ilowly to the gale? Did'st thou not know the lovely maid,

The pride and wonder of the vale ?
Dost thou not see yon simple stone,

Which reits against an aged tree?
O! thou, whom once I call’d my own,

When shall I come and rest with thee:

To thee no more shall Spring return,

Nor Phoebus dart his cheering ray; For thee no more the hearth shall burn,

When Winter chills the face of day. And see the fav’rite lamb, to whom

Its daily food fo oft she gave; Harh wandered to Maria's tomb,

And nips the grass which decks her grave. But let us check the bitter tear,

Which falls upon the verdant sod,
For though the ashes moulder here,

The soul reposes with its God.
Those early flowers which sweetly spread

Their various beauties o’er the plain,
Were lately wither’d, dry, and dead,

And shortly they must fade again.
But
my

Maria's lifeless clay,
Which bloom'd so lovely here before,
Shall spring in realms of endless day,
And flourish to decay no more.

WILLIAM HOWARD.

EDWIN.

SEE

EE where yon cypress, moist with dew,

Waves Nowly o'er its sable bed; Beneath the turf, obscur'd from view,

A gentle shepherd rests his head. When softly drinks the ev’ning gale,

The balmy fragrance nature spreads, And Cynthia silvers o'er the vale,

Where babbling streamlets lift their heads ; Slow winding through the length’ning way,

Where smiles the scene with checquer'd bloom, Fair Emma loves to watch the ray,

Slow falling o'er his simple tomb,

Or when from sylvan woods remote,

Soft warblings cheer the dewy sky, As to her ear the dying note,

Responsive breathes a ling’ring sigh, Perchance she meet some pensive swain,

Whose flocks have fled their native dale; To him begun with mournful strain,

She softly tells her plaintive tale. No more, the cries, shall cruel fate,

With golden prospect crown my joys;
Nor flattering hopes each morn await,

In flow'ry garb to feast my eyes :
No more when Summer's streaming glow,

Breaks through the morning's gauzy cloud, Shall Edwin climb the mountain brow,

To watch with me a bleating crowd: Nor when grown Autumn’s blushing grain

Has funk beneath the keen-edg'd blade, Shall he, retiring from the plain,

Divinely chaunt to Ev’ning's fhade : Nor when the moon-light's trembling sheen

Invites to dance cach sportive (wain, Shall Edwin haite towards the green,

Where mirth and joy successive reign. Yet the wild flowers he us'd to twine

In simple wreaths around my head, Shall, scatter'd o'er his humble shrine,

Still bend beneath the songster's tread. And oft, when sweeps the scented gale,

With murmurs o'er the sleeping wave, Soft music echoing through the vale,

Shall sweetly whisper o'er his grave, And soon his vital spark of fire

Shall glow with tints of spotless ray; And, plac'd in heav'n's celestial choir, Shall foar through realms of endless day,

And when on this chill'd form of mine,

Pale death has fixt his icy hands, Then shall our souls again combine

Love's purest flame in seraph bands.

TO AMBITION.

STAR

NTAY, fell Ambition, stay the dreadful blow;

Oh, check th’impetuous ardour of thy soul; Within thy breast let gen’rous feelings glow

And mild humanity thy deeds controul ! O’er yonder scenes, O! turn thy darting eyes

The blazing hamlet, ravag'd fields survey ; Th’expiring soldier, as he mangled lies

The matron's tears, the peasant's sore dismay ! Now, view fierce bands yon hapless town affail

Inflam'd with savage rage, their looks affright; Intrepid see them tow'ring ramparts scale,

The dangers braving of the bloody fight. Thro' ev'ry street, lo! carnage rages fierce

And groups of valiant herces gasp for breath ; There the keen bay’nets aged botoms pierce

And cherub infants feel the pangs of death. Hark! floating in the gale, what sounds of woe!

Wafted they seem from yonder cottag'd plain; Ah ! view, appruach Britannia's daughters flow,

Groaning with anguilh for their husbands flain. Lo! Poland ravag'd hy triumphant foes—

Barbarian despots, who, through lust of fame, Wage ruthless war against the world's repose,

Nor feel, or pangs of pity, or of shame. Fierce as the tygers of the torrid waste,

Thy minifters of vengeance prowl around; Mansions and fanes are rapidly eras’d

And rage infuriate sweeps the cultur'd ground. Close to thy throne, pale, ghastly murder stands,

Impatient waiting for thy mandates dire;
Who thirsts in human gore t'imbrue his hands,

Ferocious smiling when thy foes expire.
Say, tho' thy prowess mighty realms subdue,

And laurels blooming deck thy Itately head;
Tho' acclamations all thy steps pursue,

Doth not the field deject thee-strew'd with dead? Can wide domains, or wealth, or pow'r atone

The sacrifice of one poor fimple swain,
Forc'd to obey the edicts from thy throne,

And swell the glories of thy tyrant reign?
To white-rob’d Peace, with tender bosom bleft,

Ambition, liften; vengeful thoughts resign;
Delusive honour and false fame detest-
And bid the world no more in mis’ry pine.

J. S.

SONNET,

(N VISITING, AFTER ABSENCE, THE TOMB OF

A MOST DEAR FRIEND.

YE

ES—'tis thy smile, it bursts upon my sight

E’en thro' the tony tomb, I see the tear
Brighten thine eye's fond lustre, emblems dear,
That wont to welcome me to home's delight.
Smile-faid I ? smile!--can moulder'd ashes smile?
Can tears of joy start from thine cyeless bones?
Ah, no! nor cantt thou hear my heart's sad moans,
Which, feeding sorrow, sorrows pangs beguile.
Yet shall I see again the smile of joy,
Which pain shall ne'er embitter, where e'en now
Celestial melodies thy powers employ,
And wreaths of glory circle round thy brow.

But first must I put off this coil of clay,
And then my pilgrim fuul shall spring to realms of day.

OXONIENSIS.

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