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Ah me, methinks I hear thee say,
No hearts the power of Love obey;
No constant Bards his aid invoke;
No bosoms seek his flowery yoke;
Stern Avarice breaks his trampled bow;
The myrtle withers on his brow,
While scarce a leaf remains, to prove
What "in the Golden Age was Love."
I bend to Love's triumphant throne,
"I give to thee one heart alone."
Ah when far hence compell'd to go,
I drag the torturing chain of woe,
Tho' many a fair may seek mine eye,
To thee I'll pour the faithful sigh;
And spite of time and absence, prove
"Such in the Golden Age was Love."
See Love in native beauty rise!
Like "Truth," the God rejects disguise;
Like "Innocence," he bears no arms
To shield his breast from vain alarms;

Like " Constancy," unwont to stray,
He spreads no wing to speed away.
How well Emilia's hand can prove
What" in the Golden Age was Love!”.
Oh dare I hope the beauteous maid
Her Alfred's heart had there pourtray'd!

That heart, like " Truth," each thought unveil'd,
No wandering wish from her conceal'd,

Like "Innocence," unarm'd to bear
The wound her eye inflicted there,

And firm as "Constancy," should prove.
THIS IS THE GOLDEN AGE OF LOVE.

1800,

VERSES.

WRITTEN TO A FRIEND * 15th SEPT. 1801.

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АH Friend, we tread the downward road!
The vale of life extends below,

By Age, with leaden footstep trode,
And sprinkled o'er with locks of snow.
There, Winter's icy sceptre rear'd,
Around, in pale assemblage, stand
The time-worn cheek, the silver beard,
The shrinking limbs, the palsied hand.
All move in sight; and while they hail
Our near approach;-within the shade,
Dim lights that glimmer thro' the veil,
Disclose the mansions of the dead.

The Reverend William Duff, Minister of Favenan, Aberdeenshire; the ingenious author of an Essay on Original Genius, in two volumes; and the beautiful Oriental Tale, entitled, The His ory of Rhedi, the Hermit of Mount Ararat, &c.

When Memory, o'er the busy past
Rolls back her eye;-what forms are shown!
Young airy shapes, too gay to last;
A scene of bright illusion,-gone!

The freaks of Innocence, the play
Of Youth, that with the passing hour
Skims like the bee, from spray to spray;
And sucks the sweets of every flower:

At these, that tell of former days;
Trembling with age, and bent with care
We shake our heads;-yet fondly gaze;
And envy joys we cannot share.

Then, forward let us dart our sight,
Beyond the forms by Fancy brought;
Nor sink, within the double night

Of helpless age, and gloomy thought.

Together, let us stem the tide,

On Hope's light barque, in triumph born; And mark, rejoicing, as we glide

Thro' night, th' effulgent rays of morn.

Together let us break the force,

With Hope, our guardian, and our friend,
Of ills combined to check our course;
Or blackening clouds, that veil its end.

With philosophic calm, the fate
Be ours, to meet our final doom;
While SHE expands yon orient gate,
And points at scenes beyond the tomb!

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ON THE

FUTURE EXISTENCE

OF THE

BRUTE CREATION.

THE CHARACTER OF THE DOG FROM BUFFON.

BY MISS SEWARD.

"THE Brutes that perish."-Those few words are

shown

On the dread pages of INSPIR'D record,

By Man, proud Man, as he were doom'd alone
To meet for guiltless pain, supreme reward.

Yet knows he well, that on the LEAVES DIVINE
Oft from the seeming sense we must refrain;
And, lest warm hope consistency resign,
The letter wave, the spirit to obtain.

For Brutal Life, while reasoning we explore

The text misconstru'd much, it but declares,

That Man's free thoughts, and deeds, import him more,
Since this his state of trial is not theirs.

To earthly life he perishes;-but here

The vast, momentous difference is implied,
He perishes accountable, aware

That choice was given, and reason for its guide

I mark the tones of arrogance exclaim,
"Since they are form'd incapable of sin,
Of innocence instinctive where's the claim?
It well may be as it had never been."

True, if permitted ills did ne'er oppress;
If certain as their innocence, their peace,
With the short date of being Brutes possess,
HEAVEN might ordain their consciousness shou'd cease,

Yet not infringe those never-altering laws
Of equity, and mercy, which combin'd
To form the essence of th' Eternal Cause,
Judge, guardian, friend of all existing Kind.

But since, full oft, the pangs of dire disease,
Labor, and famine, and oppression hard,
From cruel Man, the blameless Victims seize,
Of HEAVENLY JUSTICE they may claim reward.

Alas! the dumb, defenceless Numbers, found
The wretched Subjects of a Tyrant's sway,
Who hourly feel his unresisted wound,
And hungry pine thro' many a weary day;

Or those, of lot more barbarously severe,
Who strain their weak, lame limbs beneath a load
Their fainting strength is basely doom'd to bear,
While smites the lash, the steely torments goad.

Has God decreed that this poor helpless Train
Shall groaning yield the vital breath he gave,
Unrecompens❜d for years of want and pain,
And close on them the portals of the grave?

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