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Now, Melibus, graff thy grateful fruit;
Now to the curling vine its partner suit.
Go, my once happy, go, my once-lov'd flock,
No more projecting on the brambly rock,
Shall I, at length in some green grotto thrown,
Behold you, as you browze, the dreadful steep hang
down!

No longer shall I sing, and as I sup,

See you the bitter herbs around me crop !

Tit. Yet here with me you well may rest this night; Soft fruits here are, and milks for your delight: For now the smokes from cottages ascend, And longer shades from mountain-tops extend.

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FIRST when Love's generous hopes I knew,
And revel'd in delicious pleasure,

I little thought how much of rue
Could mingle with so sweet a treasure.

Too quickly fled each dear delight,
No more with extacy I languish :
How sad is disappointment's night!
And days of rapture turn'd to anguish !

P. L. G

ELEGY

BY J. J. ESCHENBURG,

On the Death of his INFANT Daughter.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN.

BY THE LATE J. SIX, ESQ.

SOFT sinkest thou to rest; no groan, no smart; Soft lulling Angels waft thy latest breath, Thyself an Angel now, my soul's dear part, Sweet Babe, thus lying in the arms of Death!

Not he, that grisly form, whose hand malign
Wide sweeps with fatal scythe mankind away;
That Genius rather, on whose lips, as thine,
The smiling graces innocently play.

Peace to thy slumbers, Babe! thy Father's tears,
Thy Mother wailing wild her darling o'er,
Thy Brother's longings, infant as his years,
Shall wake thee to sweet sympathy no more.

O ever fortunate! whom heav'nly grace
Recall'd so early from thy mortal clay;
O ever fortunate! not left to trace

With painful error this life's thorny way;

That from all slipp'ry paths, all hidden snares,
A pitying Providence has thee convey'd ;
And that of thousand, thousand idle cares
Not one upon thy breast has ever prey'd ;
That of this visionary, magic scene

Thine eye the outward fashion only saw!
While we, of bliss too prompt to overween,
Sorrow from all, the bitterest sorrow, draw.

We ween'd it bliss, thee, tender plant, to rear,
To see our foster'd Nursling kindly grow,
Whose rip'ning faculties our toil might cheer;
Heav'ns! and we foster'd thus our future woe!

All those ideas now, on which we hung,

Thy smiling countenance, thy sportive air,
Thy foot's first effort, and thy lisping tongue,
All wound our breast, like daggers planted there.

Twas sure a dream; yet, while before our sight,
It charm'd our senses, to th' illusion blind;
But, dissipated now, and vanish'd quite,

It leaves vain longings, and regrets behind.

Yet no; still ever present, ever dear

Must be the shadow of this fleeting dream!
The thought, we once enjoy'd thy presence here,
When its now thrilling pangs grow less extreme,

When to the first rude shock a calm succeeds,
And gnawing anguish irritates no more,

When the deep wound, which now so freshly bleeds,
Does to our aching heart some case restore,

O then shall pleasing Melancholy shed
O'er softer images a milder gleam;
She o'er thy life shall fairer colours spread,
Not paint it like a vain, unreal dream ;

No; like a misty morn, whose early gloom
Was soon o'ertaken by a flood of day,
Whose Sun dispell'd the darkness of thy doom,
And all our fond forebodings chas'd away.

Thou weeping Partner of my life, be cheer'd!
All will be well; we shall not long complain
Of her sad fate, which erst so sad appear'd;

Thou hast not born her, hast not nurs'd, in vain.
"Twas not in vain, that, to promote her weal,
Watch'd unremitting thy maternal care;
Rejoice in the reward that Heav'n shall deal
For toil so pious, and for love so rare,
When, all the pains endur'd, which here annoy,
We gain th' enjoyments of a better place,
When then, at th' entrance of eternal joy,
Our own dear Angel flies to our embrace.
NOVEMBER 18, 1781.

INSCRIPTION.

Tis not, that, early summon'd from the earth
(Sad vale of pain and sorrow) thou hast fled;
-For sure to realms more suited to thy worth,
Thou soar'st, dear Saint! by kindred seraphs led-

"Tis not for this my tears incessant flow,
For this that ceaseless grief corrodes my mind,
But 'tis, and oh! forgive the selfish woe!
That I a lonely wretch am left behind.
VOL. V.

S. W. I.

STANZAS,

NATURE thy soft voice gives peace to the ocean,
And pours the light spring-breeze of rapture again,
But can'st thou restore to the Heart's fond devotion,
The Idol it worshipp'd, but worshipp'd in vain.
Hushed is the tempest that troubled the billow,
The blushes of Heaven warm its glistening foam;
No warbling gale from their mouldering pillow
Awakens the slumberers who rest in the tomb.
O'er the pale verdure that wraps each cold bosom,
The holiest dews of the evening are shed;
And there the wild rose unfolds its pale blossom,
Perfuming the breezes that mourn o'er the dead.
Ere Nature again hears the wintry winds raving,
And the snows of the mountain in dazzling wreaths
shine,

May this feverish heart rest where yon wild weeds are waving,

And the sleep of the dead, and their dwelling be

mine.

EDINBURGH, APRIL 16, 1805.

ADELINE.

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