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O! thrice more enchanting to view
Is the eye of my sweet little Anne. Can aught like the morning delight,
When it dawns towards peaceable day? Or bewitch like the planet of night, When she steals in good humour away
? Is there aught like the sweetness of eve,
When serene, as when nature began, The soft sun takes his mellow last leave ?
Yes; the smile of my sweet little Anne. Can aught more delicious be nam'd
Than the exquisite juice of the pine ? More inviting can aught be proclaim'd
Than the elegant branch of the vine ? Is there aught can in flavour exceed
Ev'ry beverage precious to man? O yes; these are tasteless indeed,
To the kiss of my sweet little Anne. Thrice more than the sun-setting hour, Or the dawn of the morning
benign, More delightful than spring's Tweetelt flow'r,
Or the mirth-making juice of the vine : More serene than the gems of the sky,
And more soft than the down of the swan, Is the cheek, is the lip, is the
THE FALLING TOWER.
Re-echo to yon falling stream ? Mark
ye its bare and crumbling walls, Where slowly fades the finking beam? There, oft, when Eve, in silent trance,
Hears the lorn red-breast's plaintive moan, Time, casting round a cautious glance,
Heaves from its base some mould'ring stone.
There, though, in Time's departed day,
War wav'd his glittring banners high,
'Midst the proud feasts of fplendid pow'r,
So bright as gilds its falling hour.
And Pleasure lose its wonted bloom,
And point to me the filent tomb,
Shed on my mind its mildest ray;
TO THE SNOW-DROP..
BY THE REV. J. BIDLAKE..
HILD of the wintry hour! ah! doom'd to trust
First off'ring of the year,
And harbinger of spring!
As mournful of thy fate,
Hangs sad a pearly tear,
With unftain'd fleece and soft,
Presses thy verdant bank.
Nor Gentleness itself,
The temper mild, that knows not how to frown,
Is form'd to fink before
The boilt'rous passions' rage,
Like thee all purity,
Like thee, to storms consign'd. But, ah! she felt the rude unpitying breath Of Malice, keener than the wintry winds;
And shrunk beneath the blast
That never, never spares.
Chill'd by the icy touch,
And early foot of Death.
This wounded breast shall heave
of cureless grief:
Her little life, forlorn,
PRESENTED WITH AN ALMANACK, 1797.
BY MR. PRATT.
AY the smooth hours, that form Matilda's year,
In kind atonement of relenting fate,
TO A FROG.
Why seek to shun my gazing eye,
No cruel foe is here.
Thy rapid bound survey;
Then journey on my way. No savage fage am I, whose pow'r Shall tear thee from thy rush-wove bow'r,
To feel th' unsparing knife;
Prolong thy little life.
The wreath of praise attain !-
To give one being pain.
BY W. GIFFORD, ESQ.
Wish I was where Anna lies;
For I am sick of ling’ring here, And ev'ry hour Affection cries,
Go, and partake her humble bier. I wish I could! For when she dy'd
I lost my all; and life has provid Since that sad hour a dreary void,
A waste unlovely, and unlov’d.
But who, when I am turn’d to clay,
Shall duly to her grave repair, And pluck the ragged moss away,
And weeds that have no “ business there?" And who, with pious hand, shall bring
The flow'rs The cherish'd, snow-drops cold, And vi'lets that unheeded spring,
To scatter o'er her hallow'd mould ? And who, while mem'ry loves to dwell Upon her name, for ever
dear, Shall feel his heart with passion swell,
And pour the bitter, bitter tear? I did it; and would fate allow,
Should visit ftill, should still deplore-
And I, alas ! can weep no more,
The last I offer at thy shrine ;
And all thy mem'ry fade with mine.
Thy voice, that might with music vie, Thy air, that ev'ry gazer took,
Thy matchless eloquence of eye, Thy spirits, frolickfome, as good,
Thy courage, by no ills dismay'd, Thy patience, by no wrongs subdu'd,
Thy gay good humour-Can they “ fade ?"