No more o'er its brink shalt thou languishing look, I'll make thee the emblem of love-broken vows; A wreath, weeping Willow, I'll bind to my crook, Another shall circle sad Corydon's brows.

Dr. Trotter.

ODE TO CAMBREA,

A MOUNTAIN IN CORNWALL.

NEAR Yonder solitary tower,

'Lone glooming 'midst the moonlight night,

I roam at midnight's spectred hour,

And climb the wild majestic height:

Low to the mountain let me rev'rent bow,
Where Wisdom, Virtue, taught their founts to flow.

Pale on a rock's aspiring steep,
Behold a Druid sits forlorn,

I see the white-rob'd phantom weep,
I hear his harp of sorrow mourn :

The vanish'd grove provokes his deepest sigh,

And altars open'd to the gazing eye.

Permit me, Druid, here to stray,

And ponder 'mid thy drear retreat;

To wail the solitary way,

Where Wisdom held her hallow'd seat:

Here let me roam in spite of Folly's smile,
A pensive pilgrim, o'er each pitied pile.

Poor ghost; No more the Druid race
Shall here their sacred fires relume;
No more their show'rs of incense blaze;

No more their tapers gild the gloom.
Lo! snakes obscene along the temples creep,
And foxes on the broken altars sleep.

No more beneath the golden brook,
The treasures of the grove shall fall;
Time triumphs o'er each blasted oak,

Whose power at length shall crush the ball: Led by the wrinkled pow'r with gladden'd mien, Gigantic ruin treads the weeping scene.

No more the bards in strains sublime,
The actions of the brave proclaim;
Thus rescuing from the rage of Time

Each glorious deed, approv'd by fame;
Deep in the dust each lyre is laid unstrung,
While mute for ever stops each tuneful tongue.

Here Wisdom's, Virtue's, awful voice,
Inspir'd the youths of Cornwall's plains;
With such no more these hill's rejoice,
But sullen death-like silence reigns;
While Melancholy in yon mould'ring tow'r
Sits list'ning to old Ocean's distant roar.

Let others, heedless of the hill,
With eye incurious pass along;
My muse with grief the scene shall fill,

And swell with softest sighs the song;

Ah! pleas'd each Druid mansion to deplore, Where Wisdom, Virtue, dwelt, but dwell no more.

Peter Pindar.

PARAPHRASE OF THE FORTY-SECOND PSALM.

As pants the wearied hart for cooling springs,
That sinks exhausted in the summer's chase;
So pants my soul for thee, Great King of Kings!
So thirsts to reach thy sacred resting-place.

On briny tears my famish'd soul has fed,

While taunting foes deride my deep despair; "Say, where is now thy great Deliverer fled?

Thy mighty God-deserted wanderer, where?"

Oft dwell my thoughts on those thrice happy days,
When to thy fane I led the jocund throng;
Our mirth was worship, all our pleasure praise,
And festal joys still clos'd with sacred song.

Why throb my heart? Why sink my sad'ning soul?
Why droop to earth with various woes oppress'd?
My years shall yet in blissful circles roll,
And joy be yet an inmate of this breast.

By Jordan's banks with devious steps I stray,

O'er Hermon's rugged rocks, and desarts drear: Ev'n there thy hand shall guide my lonely way, There, thy remembrance shall my spirit cheer.

In rapid floods the vernal torrents roll,
Harsh-sounding cataracts responsive roar;
Thine angry billows overwhelm my soul,
And dash my shatter'd bark from shore to shore.

Yet thy soft mercies, ever in my sight,

My heart shall gladden through the tedious day; And 'midst the dark and gloomy shades of night, To thee I'll fondly tune the grateful lay.

Rock of my hope! Great solace of my heart!
Why, why desert the offspring of thy care,
While taunting foes thus point th' invidious dart?
"Where's now thy God? abandon'd wanderer, where?

Why faint, my soul? Why doubt JEHOVAH's aid?
Thy God, the God of mercy still shall prove!
In his bright fane thy thanks shall yet be paid;
Unquestion'd be his pity, and his love!

Gregory's Translation of Dr. Lowth's Lectures.

THE WISH.

Ir heaven would grant my humble pray'r To live from splendour, noise and care, Be this my only plan,

And tho' remote from busy life,

Sequester'd far from pride and strife,
Reflect the happy man.

Where nature reigns in some lone grove, The linnet, lark, and pensive dove, Should join my votive lay;

Here, in a little cot retir'd,

By no vain thoughts or wishes fir'd,
Pass each revolving day.

Such joys as mine could ne'er decrease,
While blushing rosy Health and Peace
Should hail each happy morn;

Here to muse the silent hour,
And when the dews reviving pow'r
Regilds the budding thorn.

And when in Summer's sultry heat,
With moss o'ergrown a rustic seat,
With woods encircled round;
Here the beech aspiring grows,
Here the white-rob'd lily blows,

And daisies paint the ground.