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CHARES I. ELECTOR PALATINE, AND HIS BROTHER ROBERT.

NO. XXXI. VOL. V.

FUGITIVE POETRY.

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That guard sweet innocence from abject O! grant my fond request, protective powers! For my dear Mary save your sweetest hours; Aud shade her life from fate, in amaranthine bowers.

Let peace refulgent shine upon her breast, May she be happy, and her over blest: May ne'er grim grief divert the happy ray Of sweet contentment; but let zephyrs play To make her tender life one smiling verbal day. What, my dear Mary, can I wish thee more? O! one thing yet-that thou mayest ever

soar

Above the ken of guile's deluding eye, And view with rapture Him enthroned on bigb!

Be this thy Robert's wish; his tributary sigh.

If any iads in the noontide beam
Suggest no pensive, moral theme;
If embryo birds in early spring
No visions o'er thy fancy Ring;
Without a sigh if thou behold
Declining Autumn's fading gold;
If ty uafeeling breast disown
All sense of sorrow not thine own;
Or thou in other's bliss canst find
No balm to so the thy canker'd mind;
If dire misfortune's mouruful train
Approach thy closing door in vain;
If sacred friendship's generous flame
Is but to thee an empty name,
With all the sympathy that binds
In closest links congenial minds;
If seated in this sylvan bower
Thou sigh for wealth, or state, or power,
Profane no more this calm retreat,
This peaceful dell, this rustic seat;
Nor hope benea h this roof to find
Joys that exist not in thy mind.

FROM LOPEZ DE VEGA.

BY LORD HOLLAND.

In the following lines, Julio, a character in one of the plays of Lopez de Vega, excuses the indifference of his master to the charms of the Duchess of Lorraine.

WHY, men there are in cloudy days,

Who, spite of rain, abroad will roam;
Who hate the sun's all-cheering rays,
And, when 'tis fine, will mope at home;
Spaniards in India there have been,

Who, to their wives extremely slack,
Have loath'd a fair and snowy skin,

And sigh'd in secret for a black; Some sleep by day, and watch by night; Some to one nymph their life devote; Others their faith and duty plight To all that wear a petticoat: Then, that one man her charms decries, Should give the beauteous dame no care; Because my master wan's his eyes, Your mistress sure is not less fair.

INSCRIPTION

In a romantic grotto, in the beautiful seat of
Samuel Shore, Esq. of Morton.,

JF early birds at dawning light
Give to the bosom no delight;

If closing flowers at dewy eve

No fragrance o'er thy senses breathe;
No. XXXI. Vel. V.-N. 8.

SONG.

BY MRS. OPIE.

THEN be it so, and let us part,
Since love like mine has fail'd to move thee;
But do not think this constant heart
Can ever cease, ingrate, to love thee.
No-spite of all the cold disdain,
I'll bless the hour when first I met thee,
And rather bear whole years of pain
Thau e'en for one short hour forget thee.
Forget thee! No.

Still Memory, now my only friend,
Shall with her soothing art endeavour
My present anguish to suspend,
By pa.nting pleasures lost for ever.
She shall the happy hours renew,
When full of hope and smiles I met thee,
And little thought the day to view
When thou wouldst wish me to forget thee.
Forget thee! No.

Yet I have lived to view that day,

To mourn my past destructive blindness,
To see now turn'd with scorn away
Those eyes once filled with answering kind-

Dess.

But go-farewell! and be thou blest,
If thoughts of what I feel will let thee:
Yet though thy image kills my rest,
"Twere greater anguish to forget thee.
Forget thee! No.

D d

EPILOGUE,

Spoken by Mrs. Edwin in the new Play called

"The Sons of Erin, or Modern Sentiment"

I own I'm puzzled at our Bard's intent,
In making war 'gainst modern sentiment!
Mercy where has she liv'd-for by the way
I trust you've heard a Lady wrote the Play.
Ah! poor dear soul, it seems she little knows
The modern sentiments of modern beaux-

Bold, fierce, and noisy, when they dare intrude; They think their manhood's shown by being rude:

To outrage decency, their frequent boast,
And all their sentiment-a drunk-rd's toast.
Whisker'd from ear to nose, 'twould seem they
choose

To form the link 'twixt Gentlemen aud Jews! We thought, when one behind our scenes appeared,

'Twas Master Slender in old Shylock's beareOr, as waste lands, most weeds and rubbish [hair

ber,

That unplough'd brains bring greatest crops of But could you view their mounting genius soar, The hero mark, in his barouche and fourWith gait and action for the part prepared, The drayman's swaggering roll, and bruiser's guard;

See him ascend the box with surly grace, [face.
And eye each strap, with thoughtful, solemn
His horses thorough bred, his carriage new,
Patents, and posthorns, crowding on our view,
Long reins, short tommies, and the Lord knows
what,

He's off-and now the nags begin to trot.
He'll do-he'll do-oh! wonderful to say [day]
What Greenwich stage performs twelve times a
But sentiment, at last, you'li say, finds place
When beauty reigus!-alas is not the case;
Like gout, when chas'd by the medicinale eau,
Driv'n from the head, it now has seiz'd the toe.
Wax-ends and bristles, hammer, lasts, and
leather,

Have ruin'd love and shoe making together. No more Miss Glancer now each breast controls,

Instead of piercing hearts, she's stitching soles.
No more Miss Languish weeps her Cynthio
false,
[waltz;

But pares the pumps in which mamma's to
For prudent daughters now are chaprons all,
While whirling dowagers keep up the ball.
Oh, happy forecast in this ticklish age,
When half our Noblemen can drive a stage,
When high-bred dames can make or mend their
shoes,
[lose.

Coachmen and cobbler's can't have much to
What! are our Beaux all muster'd in this list?
Oh! no; behold the young diplomatist-

Cold, prim, aud prudent, vers'd in practis'd bows,

With mock solemnity, he gravely vows Ask what you will-if but the time of day, "He's—a—wholly ignorant, and-a-canuot say;"

Nay, never doubt the dull mysterious youth, The suckling Envoy strictly speaks the truth; The path to office well he knows to choose, Shriaks from reports and flies the sound of

news,

That great state maxim guarding still his way, "Who nothing knows, no secrets can betray." Let's see what Belle shall next appear before

you,

The Lady Chymist in her lab'ratory?
She'll tell what oxygen and hydrogen appears,
And how proportion'd, in her lover's tears.
But vain are all bis vows, soft sighs and flattery,
Cupid's no match for a carbonic battery;
The Lover flies-the learned courtship ends,
And if he take a wife, 'tis now friend's.

Where then does genuine sentiment appear?
When modest talent pleads for mercy—here :
For mercy d d I sue !—no-for applause-
What British band is slack in Woman's cause?
In Freedom's aid the patriot shaft she drew.
What if the bow be weak, her aim was true!
She sees Britannia's anchor is a-trip,
And pipes all hands to man the noble ship:
To England-Ireland-calls-
their guide

would prove,

And seal their union with a brother's love.

LOVE.

BY R. SOUTHEY.

THEY sin who tell us Love can die.

With life all other passions fly,
All others are but vanity.
In Heaven Ambition cannot dwell,
Nor Avarice in the vaults of Hell;
Earthly these passions of the Earth,
They perish where they have their birth;
But Love is indestructible.

Its holy flame for ever burneth,
From Heaven it came, to Heaven returneth;
Too oft on Earth a troubled guest,
At times deceiv'd, at times opprest,
It here is tried and purified,
Then hath in Heaven its perfect rest:
It soweth here with toil and care,
But the harvest-time of Love is there.
Oh! when a mother meets on high
The babe she lost in infancy,
Hath she not then, for pains and fears,
The day of wor, the watchful night,
For all her sorrow, all her tears,
An over-payment of delight!

ANACREONTIC.

MARK the busy, sportive bee, Humming, festive, thirsty thing; Every pregnant herb and tree

Gives a welcome to his wing. Roving wild, on wauton pinion, Round the Summe.'s gay dominion, Draining with insatiate power, Mellow bev'rage from each flow'r. Lo! these very flow'rs themselves, Tippling all the long night thro'; Jolly little, social elves,

Grasping each his can of dew. Pledging quick, and gaily quaffing, 'Mid the fragrant frolic laughing; 'Till the Pow'r that paints the dawn, Peeps upon the reeling lawn. Nay, behold that very Sun, 'Bibing thro' a thousand rills; Every toast consumes a ton.

How the broad-fac'd toper swills! Look, thou staid, phlegmatic strippling, He's the prototype of tippling! Seize the grape, unlock the soul, Nature bids us drain the bowl!

WRITTEN IN A YOUNG LADY'S
PRAYER BOOK.

YOUTH, beauty, health, and mirthful ease,
Have each their sev'ral pow'rs to please:
But where's the nymph, among the fair,
That knows the charm, the pow'r of prayer?
Believe me, Hebe, in this book,
The brightest eye may deigu to look;
May seek, may find a better grace
Than e'er adorn'd the fairest face.
Yet the recital of the words,
Nor love, nor joy, nor grace affords;
When prayer its proper music brings,
The soul itself must strike the strings.
The pious heart, with love sincere,
May breathe its sighs in secret here;
Or burn with joys to all unknown,
But breasts of angels and its own.

BETTY AMLETT,

AN ELEGIAC BALLAD, BY JOHN MAYNE. O! DROP a tear for Betty Amlett,

Led astray from Wisdom's ways!
Ah! once the blithest in the hamlet-

Now a scaffold ends her days!
Behold her bending in contrition!
Mark her supplicating eye!
In vain for life her sad petition-
Justice dooms, and death is nigh!

Around a rueful look she glances

On the friends of former years, While Pity, as her end advances, Trickles down their cheeks in tears! Endearing scenes of long lost pleasure, Rush upon her troubled mind;

211

Sweet Faith, and Truth's unfading treasure,
Left neglected far behind!

Abash'd, she thinks, in deep dejection,
What she is, and might have been ;
And shudd'ring, starts with recollection
At the dreadful gulph between!

Like some fair flow'r on life's wild common,
By the gale at random blown,

All that on earth adorns a woman,

Innocence, was overthrown!
Then driv'n by shame and indiscretion,
Wand'ring outcast, and forlorn,
Remote from home or habitation,

Fed with berries from the thorn

Down yonder lane where rank weeds blossom,
Sad and sorrowful her plight,
An infant clinging to her bosom
First beheld the morning light!
Ye who at ease are happy mothers,
All your cares and pains forgot,
O! think, in pity think on others,

Want and wretchedness their lot!
For want she saw her infant languish,
None to succour, none to save,
And frantic with despair and anguish,
Plung'd it headlong in the wave!

Yet drop a tear for Betty Amlett!

Lo! at Mercy's shrine she prays! Ah! once the gentlest in the hamletKind and true in better days!

But time mispent in youth's sweet season,

Felly learnt in guilt's abode,

And vice that shuns the light of reason,
Led her far away from God!

Behold her now in deep contrition,
For her crimes afraid to die!
And, maidens, from her sad condition,
Learn to fix your thoughts on high!
Or humble or obscure your dwelling,

Wisdom's ways will lead to fame;
For virtue, pride and pomp excelling,
Decks with gems a spotless name!
But Woman, void of pure Devotion,
Tho' she live in splendid halls,
Pul'd with the pride of vain emotion,
Like a fenceless city falls!

Now, o'erwhelm'd with guilt and sorrow,

Betty Amlet's curse is run!

Ah! ne'er to see another morrow,
Nor behold the setting sun!

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