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Then come, my little dwelling share,
A dwelling blest, if shar'd with thee,
Far from the proud, from pining care,
From guilt and pale-ey'd sorrow free.

Ah! let the great by error led,
To many a gorgeous city fly,
More blest with thee to eat my bread
In peace and humble privacy.

More blest to rove the heath along,
At grey-clad eve, from labour won,
To list the wood-lark's plaintive song,
And wistful watch the setting sun.

More blest by oak, that, cleft alone,
Flings o'er the stream his moss-hung bough,
As swells the blast in rougher tone,
To mark the mild wave dash below.

More blest nigh yonder darkling dell,
Where sleeps the bard by fame forgot,
Of many a love-lorn grief to tell,

And mourn till morn his cheerless lot.

But, oh! far happier, if at night,

As onward rolls the sadd'ning morn,
I meet thy blue eye's glist'ning light,
I press thy gently yielding form.

Sweet as the first drawn sigh of love,
Content, thou mild, thou meek-ey'd maid!
Above bright pow'r, gay wealth above,

To thee my willing vows be paid.

Monthly Review.

TO THE BLACKBIRD,

ALL hail, lovely songster! sweet muse of the grove!
With plumage so jetty, and golden bill, hail!
With pleasure I hear thy soft numbers of love,
From the green budding hazle-bush, float on the gale.

Thy melodious inflection's the peasants' delight,
As they wander, inhaling the sweets of the morn,
Where the steep purple woodlands the lover invite,
To breathe his warm vows 'neath the thick blooming
thorn.

O! ne'er in those shades may the clarion of war,
Nor discord domestic, or faction be found,
The tenants of nature with tumults to scare,
And spread desolation and horror around.

But as oft in its morn, so in life's silent eve,
Secure may I wander to hear thy soft strain,
And all my full heart in warm gratitude give
To Him, whose protection I ne'er sought in vain.
W. Holloway.

LOVE.

LOVE! 'tis my torment, my pleasure, my bane, It encreases each care, yet softens each pain; 'Tis a flame that unceasingly turns in my breast, It lights me to joy, yet deprives me of rest. 'Tis a fetter of roses, an adamant chain,

It is link'd round my heart where 'twill ever remain. 'Tis a hope that I cherish with sedulous care, 'Tis à grief that I nourish tho' drown'd in despair. "Tis a charm that enchants by its magical art, Yet has robb'd me of reason, of peace, and my heart. 'Tis a freedom, a bondage, that binds me its slave, 'Tis a health, yet a sickness, that leads to the grave. 'Tis a pearl of soft pity that drops from the eye, That saddens its lustre and prompts the quick sigh. 'Tis a light that illumines my devious way, Yet a darkness that fatally leads me astray. 'Tis the bud of a flower, if cherish'd aright, That will blossom to happiness, joy and delight. Much 'een shou'd you plant by adversity's rill, The cold blasts of poverty never can kill.

Said to be written by a French Emigrant.

VERSES

TAKEN FROM WALPOLE'S ANTIQUITIES, AND WERE

NEVER PUBLISHED.

Sir Henry Lea was master of the armoury to Queen Elizabeth, and made a vow to present himself. annually at the tilt, armed, there to perform in honour of her majesty's accession to the throne. Becoming at length very old, he resigned the office, and on this occasion presented the following verses to her majesty:

MY golden locks time hath to silver turn'd,

(Oh time too swift, and swiftness never ceasing!) My youth 'gainst age, and age at youth have spurn'd, But spurn'd in vain. Youth waineth by increasing. Beauty, strengthe, and youthe, flowers fading beene; Duty, faith, and love are roots, and ever-greene.

My helmet now shall make an hive for bees,
And lover's songs shall turn to holy psalmes:
A man at armes must now sit on his knees,
And feed on pray'rs, that are old age's armes.
And so from court to cottage I depart,
My saint is sure of mine unspotted heart.

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And when I sadly sit in homely cell,
I'le teach my swain this carol for a song:
Blest be the hearts that think my sovereign well,
Curs'd be the soules that think to do her wrong;
Goddesse, vouchsafe this aged man his right,
To be your beadsman now, that was your knight.
London Magazine,

STANZAS

WRITTEN BY LORD CAPEL WHEN A PRISONER IN THE TOWER, DURING CROMWELL'S USURPATION.

BEAT on, proud billows! Boreas, blow!
Swell, curled waves, high as Jove's roof;
Your incivilities do plainly show

That innocence is tempest-proof.

Tho' surly Nereus frowns, my thoughts are calm; Then strike, affliction, for thy wounds are balm.

That which the world miscalls a jail,

A private closet is to me,

Whilst a good conscience is my bail,
. And innocence my liberty;

Locks, bars, and solitude, together met,
Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret.

Here sin-for want of food-must starve,
Where tempting objects are not seen;
And these strong walls do only serve

To keep rogues out, and keep me in;
Malice is now grown charitable, sure
I'm not committed, but I'm kept secure.

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