LINES

WRITTEN BY MRS. OPIE *.

COLD are the lips whose gentle force

The reed to sweetest strains compelled: Hushed is the breath whose ready course In lengthened tone the cadence swelled.

Loved child of feeling! now no more
Thy tones the soul of taste shall feed;
And we, in music's brightest hour,

Shall sigh and miss thy tuneful reed.

With thee, to our neglected plains
The soul of genuine music came,
Taste, genius, fired us in thy strains,

While all thy precepts fanned the flame.

But short the boast-those strains so dear
No more the choral throng shall lead—
Yet still in grateful memory's ear

Will sweetly sound thy tuneful reed.

Sung at the Concert for the benefit of the Widow of the late Mr. Sharpe, held by the Anacreontic Society, at Chapel-FieldHouse, Norwich.

ODE,

TO THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ.

AUTHOR OF THE PLEASURES OF HOPE.

BY MR. J. H. L. HUNT.

BORN of her beneath whose colour'd wings Sad Collins pour'd his wild notes to the gale, While Pity's dirge wept o'er the sighing strings, And every Passion told its thrilling tale;

How sweet thy lyre with fairy sound,
The key of Harmony, can ope

The rose-bound portals that surround
The ever-blooming bower of Hope!

O skill'd to shed her silent dew
On drooping Sorrow's wither'd flower;
Or when dark Winter's sullen form
Sits frowning in his tent of storm,

To smoothe his front's cold wrinkles blue,
And throw a sunshine on his darkling hour;
Still (for how many a tearful eye
Looks fearful to a future sky,

Where Fate's veil'd woofs in darkness grow
Wrapt round with all the storms of Woe),

Still bid it fix its calmer sight

On yon celestial fields of day,

Where Hope with steady finger gay

Points to her visions of delight;

Of Friendship joining hands with Truth;
And Love, that blooms eternal youth;
And Virtue, graving on the sky
The lessons that she learnt on high;
And blue-eyed Peace with harp divine
As mild and musical as thine!

O sing, nor let us feel once more
That Rapture's strains with thine are o'er!

INSCRIPTION.

DESIGNED FOR A VILLAGE SPRING,

CALM is the tenor of my way,
Not hurried on with furious haste,
Nor raised aloft in proud display:
Pure too the tribute of my urn,
With constant flow, not idle waste,
Offering to him who sends the rain,
By serving Man, the best return.
A course like mine, thy trial o'er,
Those living waters will attain,

Which he who drinks shall thirst no more.

VOL. I.

TRANSLATION OF AN EPIGRAM

IN THE GREEK ANTHOLOGIA.

BY THE REV. G. WAKEFIELD.

FRIEND! o'er this sepulchre forbear
The plaintive sigh, the pitying tear:
No just pretence my death supplies
To heave thy breast, or dim thine eyes.
With childrens' children grac'd, one wife
Walk'd with me down the vale of life:
Three blooming youths my joyous hands
Entwin'd in Hymen's blissful bands:
The numerous race those nuptials blest
Oft slumber'd on their grandsire's breast:
No streams of grief through life I shed,
O'er child, or grandchild, sick or dead:
By them to my departed shade
The tear was pour'd, the rites were paid
Thus convoy'd to eternal rest!
In life, in death, supremely blest.

TO A COQUETTE.

BY HENRY SIDDONS.

YES we will part, these stifled sighs
Shall smother every spark of fire
Which those two heaven-created eyes
Seem still so willing to inspire.

Perhaps, dear girl, you'll ask what crime
Could thus so suddenly subdue
A flame so ardent, so sublime
As that which once I felt for you?

No crime, no sin;-perhaps mankind
May laugh at scruples I regret;
Sweet maid, as I am not quite blind,
I find thou art a true coquette.

Then flaunt along the crowded street,
Attract all hearts too if
you can;
Charm every coxcomb that you meet,
And only lose an honest man.

Thus Indian folly you surpass,
Who (as by travellers we are told)
Are charmed with little bits of glass,
And buy them with their purest gold.