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FUGITIVE POETRY.

TO AN EXOTIC. TENDER nursling of my care,

Hast i bou brav'd the wint'ry blast, Batt'ring sleet, congealing air,

Thus at Spring to droop at last? Many a night-storm bowling drear,

Vainly raging around thy shed; Many a keen morn's breath austere

Fail'd to bow thy shelter'd head. Ab! counterfeit of Spring,

Soothing with deceitful breath, Hid beneath a Zephyr's wing,

Shafts of winter-shafts of death. Pkæbas leut a treach'rous ray,

Luring confidence and joy; Laring only to betray,

Warming only to destroy. Then thy soft dilating heart

Gave its shuots, and shed its fears; Swift the phantom horls her dart,

As in the clouds she disappears. Gentle alien to a sky,

Ever varying its state ; Tho'its native, still must I

Share thy feelings and thy fate. As contending winds prevail

To the elemental strise, Straining, slack’ning, they assail

All the trembling strings of life. Sinking, then my languid eyes

Fail my spirit to amuse; Wearied, fainting ere they rise,

Exercise my limbs refuse. Aud as ev'ry seasou's course

In tbe change of one we see; Ere'is seen, I feel its force,

Shrinking, withering, like thee.

“And lovely maiden you shall see “What youth your husband is to be." Rebecca when the night grew dark, Upon the vigil of St. Mark, Observ'd by Paul (a roguish scout) Who guess'd the task she went about; Slepp'd to St. Stephen's church to see What youth her husband was to be. Rebecca heard the screech.owl cry, And saw the black bat round her fly; Sbe sat, till wild with fear at last Her blood ran cold, ber pulse beat fasts And yet rash maid! she stopp'd to see What youth her husband was to be. Rebecca heard the midnight chime Ring out the yawning peal of time; When shrouded Paul, unlucky koave, Rose like a spectre from the grave; And cry'd. “ Fair maiden, come with me, “ For 1 your bridegroom am to be." Rebecca turn'd her head aside, Sent forth a hideous sbriek, and died : 1 While Paul confess'a bimself in vain, Rebecca never spoke again! Ab! little, hapless maid, did she Think death her husband was to be. Rebecca! may thy story long Instruct the giddy aud the young ; Fright not, fond youth, the timid fair: Aud you too, gentie maids ! beware; Nor seek, by lawless arts to see What youths your husbauds are to be.

A BALLAD. REBECCA was the fairest maid That on the Danube's borders play'd; And many a landsome noblemau For her in tiit and tournay ran; While iair Rebecca wish'' to see What youth ber busband was to be. Rebecca heard thr gossips say, « Alone from dusk till midnight stay, “ Within the church-porch drear and dark, “ Upon i he vigil of St. Mark ;

No. XXIX. Vol. V.-N.S.

EPITAPH, Supposed to have been intended by Dr Beattie

for himself. Escap'd the gloom of mortal life, a soul

Here Icaves its mouldering tenement of clay, Safe, where no cares their wbelming billows

roll, No doubts bewilder, and no hopes betray. Like thee, I once have stem dihe 8-a of life ;

Like the , bave languish'd ifter empty joys, Like thee, have lab u:'d in the stormy strife;

been griev'd for irifles, and amus'd with toys, Yet for a while, 'gainst passion's threatful

blast, Let strady reason urge the struggling oar; Sbottivibe reary gloom, the morn at ast Gives to thy louging eye the blissful shore. N

Forgel my frailties—tbou art also frail

Forgive my lapses, for thyself may'st fall; Nor read, unmov'd, my artless teuder tale

I was a friend, O man, to thee to all.

Should I die before thee (for we koow not our

fate), Let iby fears and suspiciou be still, Till the close of tby life, shall benevolence

wait; For thy name shall be first in my will.

TO MY OLD HORSE SORREL.

BY DR. WOLCOT.

thy feet

THE DYING SOLDIER TO THE DEAR Surrel, i bine eyes are grown dim, and

SETTING SUN.

Yer stay, yet stay, departing beam, No longer can travel the road;

Nor meet too soon the western wave; Yel think not, penurious, 1 grudge thee thy 'I would thy last expiring beam meat,

Sbould grace a dying Soldier's grave. Or forbid thee thy happy abode.

The helm, which used my brows to shade, Thou kpowest full well, that, in fair and foul Js rusted with the evening dew; weather,

My shatter'd limbs, at distance laid,
Now'mid zephyrs, now tempests abhor'd, The bitter paogs of death renew.
How often like friends, we have journey'd to-
gether,

Yet pleas'd I view the closing light,
And never exchang'd a cross word.

Mine eyes thy distant glim'n'rings bail,

Since in the fierce destructive fight, In a canter, or trot, or a gal'op, or leap

My Country's banners still prevail. (Ah me! what a satire on mau), I scarcely remember thou mad'st a false step;

With thee at early morn I rose, Let mortals say this if they can !

Resolv'd, the daring foe I met;

Together let our glories close, To comfort thine age, take as usual thy Fair Sun, together let us set!

rounds; Enjoy all my pastures can yield:

But thou shalt set to rise again, Thy limbs shall not hang on

a tree for the And move in splendour as before ; bounds;

Whilst I amidst these heaps of slain, Thy bones shall not blanch on the field. Must set, alas! to rise no more!

Alas! sball the tale to my neighbours be told,

A tale that sweet mercy must doubt ;
For thy food, sball I kill thee, because thou

art old,
And unable to bear me about.

Remembrance sball gratefully keep in her

eye, The excursions that oft bave been mine; Then I dwell on thy virtues, and wish with a

sigh, That my life had been harmless as thine. When winter appears, with his storms and

his snows; That ght freeze the slow course of thy

blood; Thou shalt have a dry bed for thy limbs to

repose; A warm stable aod plenty of food. Jagratitude never was thine, the disgrace,

Tolby praise which shall ever be sung: But by man (let me say, with a blush for Ibe

race), That my bosom has often been stupg:

MIDNIGHT.
The wearied biod is now at rest,

And the ember'd fire decays,
While the cricket, latest guest,

Chirups o'er the dying blaze.
Slowly rising o'er the bill,

Cynthia, bright, the prospect cheers ;
And her figure on the rill

Lovely as herself appears.
Morpheus now has banish'd care,

And each breast enjoys repose,
Save yon wretched love-lorn fair,

Breathing to the night her woes.
Swift the silver scene is chang'd,

Tempests dark obscure the sight;
Clouds of Heav'n's artill’ry rang'd

Muster on the brow of night.
Dreadful howls the raging blast,

Furious o'er creation driven,
While the Atheist stares aghast,

Trembling at offended Heaven !

Wildly foams the surge; and, hark! And for the soul, that bade him wasie the earth, To tbe drowning seaman's groan!

The sable land-flood from some swamp ok. As the billow-bealen bark,

scure,

[dearth, Plunging, sinks for ever down!

That puisous the glad husband-field with Awful silence is restor'd!

And by destruction bids its fame endore, And the hurricano pass'd!

Hath not a source more sullen, stagnant, and Quiet sleep the wind which roar'd

impare. O'er the desolatiug waste!

Before tbat Leader strode a shadowy form, Gracious now th: orbs of light

Her limbs like mist, her torch like meteor Brighten up the delag'd plains,

shew'd,

(storm, And the bells from yonder height

With which she beckon'd him thro' fight and Tells tbat tranquil midnight reigns!

And all he crush'd that cross'd bis desperate road;

(he trode ;

Nor thought, nor feared, nor looked on what ODE TO A SINGING BIRD.

Realms could not glut bis pride, blood not

slake, O THOU that glad'st my lonely hours,

So oft as e'er she shook her torch abroad With many a wildly warbled song,

It was Ambition bade his terrors wake, When melancholy round me low'rs,

Nor deign'd she, as of yore, a milder forn to And drives ber sulley storms along ;

take. When fell adversity prepares

No longer now she spurn'd at mean revenge, To lead her delegated traiu,

Or staid her haud for conquer'd freeman's Pale sickness, want, remorse, and pain, With all her bost of lurking cares,

moan, The fri:ods ordain'd to tame the buman soul,

As wben the fates of aged Rome to change And give the bumbled heart to sympatby's

By Cæsar's side she cross'd ihe Rubicon ; controul.

Nor joyed sbe to bestow the spoils she won,

As when the banded powers of Greece were Sweet soother of my misery, say,

tasked Why dost thou clap thy joyous wing ?

To war beneath the youth of Macedon : Why dost thou pour tby artless lay?

No seemly veil her modern minion asked, How caust thou, little prisoner, sing?

He saw her hideous form, and loved the fiend Hast thou not cause to grieve,

unmasked. That man, uopitying man, has rent

That Prelate marked his march-On banners From tbee the booo wbich nalure meant,

blazed Thou should'st, as well as he receive ?

With battles won in many a distant land, The power to woo thy partner in the grove,

On eagle standards and on ,arais he gazed; To build, where instinct poivis, wbere choice

“ Aud lopest thou then," he said, “ thy directs to rove?

power shall stand ? Ere while, when brooding o'er my soul, O! thou hast builded on the shifting sand, Frowu'd the black demons of despair,

And tbou bas tempered it with slaughter's Did not thy voice their power controul,

[hand, And oft suppress the rising tear ?

And know, fell scourge in the Almighty's If Fortune should be kind,

Gore-moistened trees shall perish in the bud, If e'er with affuence I am blest,

Aud, by a bloody death, sball die the Man of I'll often seek some friend distress'd,

Blood.” And wheu the weeping wretch I find, The ruthless Leader beckon'd from his train Then, tupeful moralist, I'll copy thee,

A wan paternal shade, and bade him kneel, Aud solsce all his woes with social sympathy!

And paled his temples with the Crown of Spain,
While trumpets rang, and heralds cried

“ Castile!"
BONAPARTE.

Not that he lov'd him-No!-in no man's weal,

[heart; From the Vision of Don Roderick."

Scarce in his own e'er joyed that sullen From a rude isle bis ruder liveage came.

Yet round that throne he bade his warriors The spark, that, from a suburb huvei's wheel, bearth

That the poor puppet might perform his part, Ascending, wraps some capital in flame, And be a sceptred slave, to bis stern look to Hatbu ot a meaner or more serdid birth.

start.

Aood;

BY MR. SCOTT.

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