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As from yon dull and stagnant lake The streams begin to live and take Their course thro' Clara's wooded vale, Kiss'd by the health-inspiring gale, Heedless of wealth their banks may hold, They glide, neglectful of the gold, Yet seem to hope a Shakespeare's name To give our Avon deathless fame, So, from the savage barren heart, The streams of Science and of Art May spread their soft refreshing green, To vivify the moral scene.

O, vanish'd Hope!-O, transient boast! O, COUNTRY gain'd but to be lost! Gain'd by a nation, rais'd, inspir'd, By Eloquence and Virtue fir'd, By transatlantic glory stung, By Grattan's energetic tongue, By Parliament that felt its trust, By Britain terrify'd and just. Lost-by thy chosen children sold: And conquer'd-not by steel but gold: Lost in a bargain, base, absurd, Dupe to a Courtier's pledge-his word. Its purpose serv'd, then nothing loath, The word is broken by the oath. The Courtier skulks behind the throne, And sold our honour, saves his own. Lost-by a low and servile great, Who smile upon their Country's fate, Crouching to gain the public choice, And sell it by their venal voice. Lost-to the world and future fame, Remember'd only in a name,

Once in the Courts of Europe known
To claim a self-dependent throne.
Thy ancient records torn, and tost
Upon the waves that beat thy coast;
The mock'ry of a mongrel race,
Sordid, illiterate, and base.

To Science lost, and letter'd Truth,
The genius of thy native youth,
To Cam or Isis glad to roam,
Nor keep a heart or hope for home:
Thy spark of independence dead;
Thy life of life, thy freedom, fled.
Where shall her sad remains be laid?
Where invocate her solemn shade?
HERE be the mausoleum plac'd,
In this vast vault, this silent waste;-
Yon mould'ring pillar, 'midst the gloom,
Finger of time! shall point her tomb;
While silence of the ev'ning hour
Hangs o'er Glendalloch's ruin'd tow'r.

EXTEMPORE

On a Key, appended to the Bosom of a very beautiful young Lady.

How blest is thy lot, thou insensible Key,
How gladly I'd change situations with thee!
For to thee, like the Key of St. Peter, is given

To guard o'er the gateway-that leads into Heav'n!

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VERSES.

BY THE REV. DR. LAYARD,

LATE DEAN OF BRISTOL ;

On the Duke and Duchess of ANCASTEE,

LET senseless libertines complain
Aloud, of Hymen's galling chain,
Their censure is ill plac'd;

His rule unjustly is abus'd,
That which deserves to be accus'd
Is their own want of taste.

I know a pair, whose souls combin'd
By Nature as by Hymen join'd,
Appear almost as one;

To them, that tiresome stupid life,
Those scenes of weariness or strife,
Entirely are unknown.

"Tis theirs the truest joy to know,
Unsullied pleasures they bestow,

The noblest passions blend :Cannot those scenes of bliss invite, Those scenes of transport, where unite The Lover and the Friend?

Compare you such a state as this,
With that deceitful transient bliss
For which some idly roam;
Their joys are folly, noise their mirth ;-
No happiness is known on earth,
But what is found at home,

VERSES,

Translated from the Greek of Ibycus Rheginus.

BY WILLIAM PRESTON, ESQ.

NAIADS Soft, Cydonian maids,
When the leaf embrowns the shades,
When the birds their carols sing,
Pour the streamlet from the spring.
Vernal gales awake the vine,
Leaves to spread, and tendrils join,
Bid the little suckers grow,
Soon with racy juice to flow.
In this season maidens fair
To the crystal stream repair,
Virgin gardens of delight,

Kind of heart, in feature bright:
These are they that wing the dart,

These are they that fire

my heart:

Wakeful Love within my breast,
Never, never gives me rest.
Not a season, not an hour,
Frees me from the Tyrant's power,
Like the Thracian winds that fly,
Like the light'ning from the sky.
Swift his arrows pierce the soul,
Swift subdue with fierce controul.
VOL. IV.

D

From each object of desire,
Madding Rage, consuming fire,
Mock the senses with illusion,
Fill the spirit with confusion ;
Dreadful offspring of Delight,
Love confounds me in his might.
All my thoughts and wishes filling,
Waking pangs, desires instilling,
Cruel Tyrant of the breast,
Never does he give me rest.

TO FRANCES.

TOUCH'D with thy woes, beloved Friend!
Fondly to thee this heart advances;
At least on one fond heart depend—

It cannot love thee less, sweet Frances!

Admired while grac'd with health and bloom,
Thy grief, to me, thy worth enhances :
Short be thy date, or sad thy doom,

How can I e'er forget thee, Frances?

From virtue though thy steps should stray,
And nought betide thee but mischances,

If honour, candour thee betray,

I never will forsake thee, Frances!

AMICUS.

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