Of thee since Destiny my heart bereaves,
Lone wintry sighs in unison ascend
With the chill blast that faded Nature grieves!→→
On me her griefs, but not her hopes attend,
SPRING shall return to her, when distant far my
No Expectation tells, with voice benign,
That future years shall give her back to me.-
Thou may'st again behold these Turrets shine,
These bowers may spread, these meadows bloom for thees
But here no more wilt thou thine ANNA see,
Yet not for that shroud those mild eyes in gloom,
She twines the cypress wreath, by Heav'ns decree,
For many a Victim of the ruthless Tomb!-
Set are her heart-dear Orbs where no blest mornings come!
For thee, lov'd MAID, extracted be each thorn
That lurks amid the roses of thy fate!
Knowledge and Taste are thine, and bid thee scorn
Each shaft of ENVY, FALSEHOOD, PRIDE, and HATE,
For thou hast soar'd where they have never sat ;
Trac'd GENIUS in his sun-track; with rapt gaze
Ador'd bright Nature in her scenic state,
And in thy morn of life and riper day
Fed thy clear lamp of Faith from TRUTH's unclouded ray!
BY THE REV. J. WHITEHOUSE.
WHENCE is this prodigality of life?
That Nature's law which acts most uniform
In beings sensitive, seems in thyself
To be a strange exception. Madly thou
Rushest on thy destruction, as if life ·
To thee were of no worth, most like the rash
And impious suicide! Alas, I hear
Thy feeble, plaintive cry: the scorching flame
Has warped thy beauteous plumes, and crazed thy frame,
When thou didst plunge into the fount of light,
And thought'st it Glory's radiance. Bold indeed
And daring thy attempt, and oft I muse
With pity, mixed with wonder, at the deed,
Since in the day thou lovest not to shew
Thy delicate form, but lurkest all unseen,
Snug in the crevice of some wail, or close
Wrapt amidst darksome foliage; nor till eve
Has cooled the air, and fragrant mildness breathed,
Thou venturest cautious forth, now here now there
Wheeling thy flight, in motion like the bat
With wing unsteady-wherefore then dost thou
With fatal perseverance, circle thus
Around yon taper? wherefore, silly Fly!
Art thou so resolute to meet thy doom,
That scarce the hand can e'er succeed, that fain
Would rescue thee, and save thee from an end
So truly pitcous-lo, again thou dartest
Across the winking flame!-'twas thy death-wound.
I see thee writhe in pain; thy beating wings
Struggle in vain to lift thee in the air;
Thou perishest: and in the breast humane
Thy fate, thou hapless wanderer of the night!
Wakens a pang. Ah what avails it now
That once the eye. of admiration gazed
Upon thy plumes, bedropt with many a hue,
Azure and gold, and lovely crimson-tints,
And decked with pencillings that Art in vain
May strive to imitate. So have I seen
Perish some FAIR ONE in the pride of youth.
Amidst the blaze of ball-rooms, in the dance,
At midnight feast, with merriment and song,
And dress ill-suited to the night air's damp,
Awhile she flutter'd, like the giddy Fly
Midst the bright circle, and all eyes admired.
But midst the brilliancy of her career
Untimely Fate o'ertook her; on her cheek
The once-fresh roses faded, pale her form
Emaciated and wan; for she had vowed
To sacrifice to FASHION, and she fell
A victim on that altar, in the bloom
Of early youth. Sad lesson to her sex
But salutary, if the young and fair
Thus warned, would learn to lend a patient ear
To what EXPERIENCE teaches.
THE INVITATION,
BY W. HOLLOWAY,
Author of the "Peasants' Fate, Scenes of Youth," &c.
HARK! 'tis the Cuckow's summer voice
Invites our morning steps abroad;
Come, dear companion of my choice,
Say, shall we take the upland road;
Or down the vallies shall we stray,
Luxuriant, cloath'd with green and gold,
Or thro' the brown heath pick our way;
Or skirt the wood, or seek the fold?
For me has every scene its charms,
And hills, and vales, and heaths, are dear!
My heart poetic fervor warms,
If lovely Woman be but near.
Not all the wealth the east ean boast,
For Woman's absence can atone;
Depriv'd of her, to comfort lost,
Who could sustain life's load alone?
I envy not sweet Cashmire's vale,
Where everlasting roses bloom;
Or Indian groves, that scent the gale,
With intermingling, rich perfume;
For there secluded Woman mourns,
A hopeless slave, with languid mind;
While injured Love indignant turns,
Nor boon, nor blessing leaves behind.
O! I admire the polish'd brow,
The locks of jet that float around;
The eyes of animated glow,
The lips that form the silver sound:
But ah! in vain those graces shine,
Or dazzle with external wiles:
Give me the countenance divine,
Thro' which the Soul looks out, and smiles.
Thy charms are-sense-expression-fire-
In happiest symmetry combin'd:
Then wonder not that I admire;
That faithful mirror of thy mind.
Be still my MUSE, 'where'er I stray,
Inform my heart, and cheer my breast;
Roll ev'ry mental cloud away,
And give the joys of life their zest!
LONDON, AUG. 19,
On seeing FLOWERDEW's Poems on the same Shelf with the Farmer's Boy at BLOOMFIELD's Cottage.
THOUGH Scant be the Poet's domain,
Most ample, I know, is his mind;
The applauses of all he can gain,
His applauses to none are confin'd.
Hence, even his book-stor❜d retreat
This liberal thought seems to yield→
That the dew of a flower may be sweet;
Though it match not the bloom of a field.
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