With Friendship ev'ry joy had fled,
With her each rapture took its flight;
Nor longer charm'd the branching fhade,
Nor fragrant morn, nor spangled night.
In vain for me the fongfter fwell'd its throat,
In vain the buds their moiften'd sweets difclofe;
Nor cheer'd their glowing tints, nor footh'd the note;
Alas! the felfish heart no pleasure knows.
"Ah, Hope!" figh'd I," are these thy proffer'd joys?
"Are these the hours of blifs that should be mine?
Few have I known fince loos'd from Friendship's ties."
Again my vows I offer'd at her shrine.
Sudden, as from Caftalia's favour'd fpring,
As fweet, as foft a tone I hear,
As ever floated on mild Ev'ning's wing,
Or footh'd pale Echo's ear.
Caught by the ftrain, each tear forgot to flow,
Each bitter rifing murmur ftraight repreft;
When, with enchanting air and placid brow,
The lovely fair Califa ftood confeft.
In feelings loft, tumultuoufly fweet,
Exultingly I own'd her gentle fway,
And bleft the heart, whose fympathetic beat
Hail'd the young dawn of Friendship's rifing day.
APOSTROPHE to SENSIBILITY.
ARENT of the keenest woe,
Source of each extatic bliss,
From whofe mingled fountain flow
Streams of joy and bitterness;
What tho' you prompt the painful figh,
And chace foft flumbers from th' expecting eye;
What tho' thy lovely form appears
Bedew'd with fympathetic tears;
Yet thou hatt charms (to thofe alone
Who feel thy heav'nly influence known)
Which amply recompence each anxious hour,
And bribe the melting heart to bless thy pow'r.-
Come then with all thy trembling train,
And in my breast forever reign;
There erect thy foft'ning throne,
Diffolve my foul in tranfports all thine own
Grant that these eyes may ne'er remain
Unmoiften'd at the tale of woe;
Nor e'er this heart refufe to fhare
In pleasures by another known.
For tho' thou plant'ft the path of life with thorns,
Thou ftrew'ft each flow'ret which that path adorns.
Extracts from a Collection of Manufcript Poems-Communicated by RENRAW.
The ORIGIN of MAN.
◄0 know the origin from whence you came,
And the frail fashion of this human frame,
Paufe o'er thofe monuments with penfive eye,
Where purpled tyrants, proud oppreffors lie:
All who could boaft, wealth, wisdom, beauty, birth,
Here meet and mingle with one common earth:
Yet thefe no bright accomplishments could fave
From Fate's dread fentence to the gloomy grave.
There, while you read the frailty of your frame,
Learn from what vile original you came.
The Poor fhall not be oppressed.
WHO dares with wrongs the needy to purfue,
Is base, nor base alone, but wicked too:
What thoughtless pride, to fpurn that humble ftate,
Which chance may make his own unpitied fate:
Tho' now he boafts his heaps of golden ftore,
Soon may thofe fail, and he be rich no more:
The ftreams of Fortune, never at a stay,
Oft change their courfe, and quickly glide away.
REFLECTIONS in a BURIAL GROUND.
O range with heedlefs ftep the brink along,
And scatter thought with Folly's trifling fong;
Tembrace the fhade of ev'ry fenfual joy,
Ye fons of earth, your taftelefs hours employ:
But, be it mine, with melancholy tread,
To vifit oft the manfions of the dead-
To feek the cottage where the widow moans,
And feeds her griefs with orphans' piercing groans-
To guide my steps unto the lone retreat
Of woe, and pining want the difmal feat-
Or draw the curtain where pale Sickness reigns,
And Death all ghaftly comes with racking pains.
Thus, from experience, may I learn to know
The real value of all things below;
And while diftrefs in various fhapes I fee,
To drop a tear at human mifery.
No more I'll ramble thro' the verdant vales,
No more I'll breathe the balmy western gales;
No more I'll range the once enchanting bow'r,
Nor ftroll with LAURA at the ev'ning hour;
But where yon wall, with ivy cover'd round,
Enclofes fad the lonesome burial ground,-
Where weeping willows caft a difmal fhade,
And mourn in filence for their neighb'ring dead,
There, let me walk in melancholy guise,
There, teach my foul t' expand her wings, and rife
Triumphant o'er the grave, and live above the fkies!
Where now the pomp, the pleasure, nonsense all,
The pageant glories of this rolling ball?
Thanks, O ye dead! your fage advice I prize;
From you I learn all these are specious lies.
Beneath the fun, there's nothing worth my love,
Save Virtue fair, whofe vot'ry may I prove!
In gloomy fhades you've made your peaceful bed,
The place where fhortly I muft lay my head.
In that dread moment, when the pulse of joy
Shall cease to beat, and ev'ry fin annoy,
When Pleasure's fun, which once illum'd my days,
No more fhall fhed his mild and genial rays,
And ev'ry object that could once delight,
Is ravifh'd fudden from my longing fight,
O! then in CHRIST may I refign my breath,
And tranquil fall beneath the ftroke of death.
Some future day, perhaps, a mourning friend,
Sick of the world, his feet may hither bend,
And while beneath the clods I mouldering lie,
May read my name, and heave one tender figh:-
Here lies the fwain, whose bosom was fincere,
And who to forrow always lent a tear,
Has Death then conquer'd and confin'd the MAN
To this small tenement, in length a ipan ?
Quite the reverse-Death burst the clay barrier,
And gave the prisoner to mount in air,
Sublime and pure, from noxious vapours free-
There dwells the foul in confcious liberty.
Thence to affume this difunited frame,
She'll quickly dart, like lightning's inftant flame,
When the archangel's trump fhall rend the sky,
And wake the dead-now never more to die.
Why then with forrow fhould my eyes o'erflow?
Why longer fhould I mourn for human woe?
Grief! rife no more; but henceforth drowned be
In the firm hope of immortality.
Immortal! I'll refign this feeble frame,
With rapture, to the earth from whence it came :
Yes, Death! when thou, commiffion'd from above,
Shall, to fulfil the bleft decree of love,
Unlock my prifon doors, and fet me free
To range at large thro' vaft Eternity-
Swiftly I'll take my flight, and, free from woes,
Leave this worn body to a foft repose.
The SEASONS MORALIZED. By Dr. DWIGHT.
EHOLD the changes of the skies,
And fee the circling feafons rife ; Hence let the moral truth refin'd Improve the beauty of the mind.
Winter late with dreary reign Rul'd the wide unjoyous plain; Gloomy ftorms, with folemn roar, Shook the hoarse refounding fhore. Sorrow caft her sadness round, Life and joy forfook the ground; Death, with wild imperious fway, Bade th' expiring world decay. Now caft around thy raptur'd eyes, And fee the beauteous fpring arife; See flowers inveft the hills again, And ftreams remurmur o'er the plain. Hark! hark! the joy infpiring grove Echoes to the voice of love; Balmy gales the found prolong, Wafting round the woodland fong.
Such the fcenes our life difplays;
Swiftly fleet our rapid days;
The hour that rolls forever on
Tells us our years must foon be gone.
Sullen death with mournful gloom
Sweeps us downwards to the tomb;
Life and health and joy decay,
Nature finks and dies away.
But the foul in gayeft bloom
Difdains the bondage of the tomb,
Afcends above the clouds of even,
And raptur'd hails her native heaven.
Youth and peace and beauty there
Forever dance around the year;
An endless joy invefts the pole,
And streams of ceaseless pleasure roll.'
Light and joy and grace divine
With bright and lasting glory shine;
Jehovah's fmiles, with heav'nly ray,
Diffufe a clear unbounded day.
ODE to SIMPLICITY.
Come, ye fragrant gales that
The furface of the Summer deep,
Nor yet refuse to waft my lay,
And with it fan the breast of May;
For humble though it be,
It hails benign Simplicity.
Why do we haunt the Mountain's fide,
Ere yet the curling vapours glide?
Why mark the op'ning buds of Spring,
Or trace the fhrill Lark's quiv'ring
wing?
It is, that then we fee
Meek Nature's Sweet Simplicity.
The lengthen'd fhades that Evening
draws,
Of calm repofe the gen❜ral paufe,
The Stream that winds yon meads
along,
The Nightingale's tranfcendent fong,
VOL. III. No. 1.
Addreffed to Mrs. WELLS.
Borrow each charm from thee,
O foft-ey'd Nymph, Simplicity!
Then to thy brow, lov'd WELLS, is
due,
A lafting wreath, of various hue,
Hung with each perfum'd flow'r that
But chief, the Cowflip and the Rofe:
blows,
For furely thou art she!
THYSELF-benign Simplicity !
And when thy Mimic Pow'rs are fhewn
Each other's talents are thy own,
Appropriate to thyfelf we find,
The thrilling voice, the wounded mind;
The farting rear we fee
In Nature's pure Simplicity.
Haft thou beheld the infant Moon
High to her couch, ere Night's full
noon?
H
Then haft thou heard the Lover-train To bid the ftreamy lightnings fly
In tones of fad regret complain;
So abfent, all agree,
To mourn for loft Simplicity.
So when upon thy well-wrought fcene
The curtain drops its clofing green,
We grieve the mirthful hour is paft,
And murmur that it fled fo faft;
We wish again to fee
The Beauties of Simplicity.
And Loveliness delights to dwell
Upon thy bofom's fnowy fwell,
A BALLAD. From WISH I were where Helen lies! Night and day on me fhe cries
To bear her company.
In liquid peril from thine eye;
And to each heart decree
The Triumph of Simplicity.
Ah! while I vent'rous pour the verse,
Unfit thy praises to rehearse;
Yet may'ft thou kindly deign to hear,
For O, the Tribute is fincere!
The homage paid by me,
In genuine TRUTH's Simplicity.
DELLA CRUSCA.
PINKERTON'S COLLECTION.
The worm now tastes that rofy mouth
Where glow'd, fhort time, the fmiles
of youth;
O would that in her darkfome bed
My weary frame to reft were laid,
From love and anguish free!
I hear, I hear the welcome found
Break flowly from the trembling
mound
That ever calls on me:
Oh bleffed virgin! could my power
Vie with my wifh, this very hour
I'd fleep death's fleep with thee.
A lover's figh, a lover's tear
Attended on thy timeless bier:
What more can fate require ?. I hear, I hear the welcome found Yes, I will feek the facred ground, And on thy grave expire.
And in my heart's dear home,
Her fnowy bofom loves to lie.--
I hear, I hear the welcome cry!
I come, my love! I come.
O life begone! thy irkfome fcene
Can bring no comfort to my pain:
Thy fcenes my pain recall!
My joy is grief, my life is dead,
Since the for whom I liv'd is fled;
My love, my hope, my all.
Take, take me to thy lovely fide,
Of my lost youth thou only bride!
O take me to thy tomb!
I hear, I hear the welcome found-
Yes, life can fly at forrow's wound.
· I come, I come, I come.
SONNET. By Mrs. CHARLOTTE SMITH.
HE garlands fade, that Spring fo lately wove,
Each fimple flower, which fhe had nurs'd in dew,
Anemonies that fpangled every grove,
The primrose wan, and hare-bell, mildly blew.
No more fhall violets linger in the dell,.
Or purple orchis variegate the plain,
"Till fpring again fhall call forth every bell,
And drefs with humid hands her wreaths again.
Ah! poor Humanity! fo frail, fo fair,
Are the fond vifions of thy early day,
Till tyrant paffion, and corrofive care,
Bid all thy fairy colours fade away!
Another May new buds and flowers fhall bring;
Ah! why has happiness-no fecond spring?
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