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And in the visitation of the winds,

Who take the ruffian billows by the top,

Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them
With deaf'ning clamours in the slipp'ry shrouds,
That, with the hurly, death itself awakes?
Canst thou, O partial Sleep! give thy repose
To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude,
And, in the calmest and the stillest night,
With all appliances and means to boot,
Deny it to a King? then happy lowly clown,
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown!

FRIENDSHIP.

BLAIR.

FRIENDSHIP! mysterious cement of the soul,
Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society!
I owe thee much. Thou hast deserv'd from me
Far, far beyond what I can ever pay.
Oft have I prov'd the labours of thy love,
And the warm efforts of the gentle heart
Anxious to please. Oh! when my friend and I
In some thick wood have wander'd heedless on,
Hid from the vulgar eye, and sat us down
Upon the sloping cowslip-cover'd bank,
Where the pure limpid stream has slid along
In grateful errors through the underwood,
Sweet murmuring; methought the shrill-tongued
thrush

Mended his song of love; the sooty blackbird
Mellow'd his pipe, and soften'd ev'ry note;
The eglantine smell'd sweeter, and the rose
Assum'd a dye more deep; whilst ev'ry flower
Vied with his fellow-plant in luxury

Of dress. Oh! then the longest summer's day
Seem'd too, too much in haste; still the full heart

Had not imparted half: 'twas happiness
Too exquisite to last. Of joys departed
Not to return, how painful the remembrance!

THE ROSE.

COWPER.

THE rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a shower,
Which Mary to Anna convey'd;

The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flower,
And weigh'd down its beautiful head.

The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet,
And it seem'd, to a fanciful view,

To weep for the buds it had left with regret
On the flourishing bush where it grew.

I hastily seiz'd it, unfit as it was

For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd, And, swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas! I snapp'd it-it fell to the ground.

"And such," I exclaim'd, " is the pitiless part Some act by the delicate mind,

Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart
Already to sorrow resign'd.

"This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,
Might have bloom'd with its owner a while ;-
And the tear that is wip'd with a little address,
May be follow'd perhaps with a smile."

GO, LOVELY ROSE.

A Song.

WALLER.

Go, lovely Rose !

Tell her that wastes her time, and me,
That now she knows,

When I resemble her to thee,

How sweet and fair she seems to be!

Tell her that's young,
And shuns to have her graces spied,
That, had'st thou sprung
In deserts, where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retir'd,
Bid her come forth,

Suffer herself to be desir'd,

And not blush so to be admir'd.

Then die! that she

The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee:

How small a part of time they share,
That are so wondrous sweet and fair.

Yet, though thou fade,

From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise, And teach the maid,

That goodness Time's rude hand defies, That Virtue lives when Beauty dies.

(This last verse was added by Henry Kirke White.)

THE BARD.

A Pindaric Ode.

GRAY.

I.-1.

"RUIN seize thee, ruthless King!
Confusion on thy banners wait!
Though fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing,
They mock the air with idle state!
Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail,

Nor even thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail
To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,
From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!"
Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride
Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay,
As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side
He wound with toilsome march his long array.
Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance!
"To arms!" cried Mortimer, and couch'd his
quiv'ring lance.

I.-2.

On a rock whose haughty brow

Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,
Robed in the sable garb of woe,

With haggard eyes the poet stood;

(Loose his beard, and hoary hair

Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air ;)
And with a master's hand, and prophet's fire,
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre.

“ Hark, how each giant oak and desert cave

Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath!
O'er thee, O King! their hundred arms they wave,
Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe;
Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,
To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.

I.-3.

"Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,
That hush'd the stormy main.

Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed:
Mountains, ye mourn in vain

Modred, whose magic song

Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topp'd head.

On dreary Arvon's shore they lie,
Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale;
Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail;
The famish'd eagle screams, and passes by.
Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,
Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes,
Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,
Ye died amidst your dying country's cries.
No more I weep. They do not sleep.
On yonder cliffs, a grisly band,

I see them sit: they linger yet,
Avengers of their native land:

With me in dreadful harmony they join,

And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy

line.

II.-1.

"Weave the warp, and weave the woof,
The winding-sheet of Edward's race:
Give ample room, and verge enough,
The characters of hell to trace.

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