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Through secret woes the world has never known, When on the weary night dawn'd wearier day,

And bitterer was the grief devour'd alone. That I o'erlive such woes, Enchantress! is thine own.

Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow retire,

Some Spirit of the Air has waked thy string! 'Tis now a Seraph bold, with touch of fire,

'Tis now the brush of Fairy's frolic wing. Receding now, the dying numbers ring

Fainter and fainter down the rugged dell, And now the mountain breezes scarcely bring

A wandering witch-note of the distant spellAnd now, 'tis silent all!—Enchantress, fare thee well!

MUSIC.

H. K. White.

MUSIC, all powerful o'er the human mind,

Can still each mental storm, each tumult calm, Sooth anxious Care on sleepless couch reclin'd,

And e’en fierce Anger's furious rage disarm.

At her command the various passions lie;

She stirs to battle, or she lulls to peace, Melts the charm'd soul to thrilling ecstacy,

And bids the jarring world's harsh clamour ccase. Her martial sounds can fainting troops inspire

With strength unwonted, and enthusiasm raise, Infuse new ardour, and with youthful fire

Urge on the warrior grey with length of days.

Far better she when with her soothing lyre

She charms the falchion from the savage grasp, And melting into pity vengeful Ire,

Looses the bloody breast-plate’s iron clasp.

With her in pensive mood I long to roam,

At midnight's hour, or evening's calm decline, And thoughtful o'er the falling streamlet's foam,

In calm Seclusion's hermit walks recline.

Whilst mellow sounds from distant copse arise,

Of softest flute or reeds harmonic join'd, With rapture thrill'd each wordly passion dies,

And pleased Attention claims the passive Mind.

Soft through the dell the dying strains retire,

Then burst majestic in the varied swell; Now breathe melodious as the Grecian lyre,

Or on the ear in sinking cadence dwell.

Romantic sounds! such is the bliss ye give,

That heaven's bright scenes seems bursting on the soul; With joy I'd yield each sensual wish, to live

For ever 'neath your undefild controul.

Oh surely melody from heaven was sent,

To cheer the soul when tir'd with human strife, To sooth the wayward heart by sorrow rent,

And soften down the rugged path of life.

ON THE APPROACH OF WINTER.

Westal.

WHAT time the once unnoticed tide,
Fast swelling rolls a torrent wide;
What time the fields are frequent strown
With scattered leaves of yellow brown;
What time the hawthorn berries glow,
And, touch'd by frost, the ripen'd sloe
Less crudely tastes; and when the sheep
Together in the valleys keep;
And all the smaller birds appear
In flocks, and mourn the alter'd year;
The careful rustic marks the signs
Of winter, marks them and repines;
Swift to the neighb’ring wood he goes,
Its branches fall beneath his blows,
And, as they fall, his healthy brood
In bundles tie the sapless wood,
And bear it on their heads away,
As fuel for the wintry day.
At length the chilling mists arise
Wide o'er the earth, and veil the skies;
The feather'd show'r falls thickly down,
And deeper seems dark winter's frown;

The north-wind hollow murm’ring blows,
And drives in heaps the falling snows;
While Fancy, (now without her flowers
Her wand'ring streams, her mystic bowers,)
Delighted, rides upon the wind,
And shapes the wild forms to her mind.
Me, when the rising morning breaks
The rear of night with ruddy streaks,
She calls, the alter'd scenes to view,
And fill the soul with features new.
How chang'd how silent is the grove,
Late the gay haunt of youth and love!
Its tangling branches now are shorn
Of leafy honours, and upborne
By their close tops, the snow has made
Beneath a strange and solemn shade.
Here oft with careless ease I lay
On the green lap of genial May:
Dear was the stream, whose bottom shone
With fragments rude of sculptur'd stone,
Which from yon abbey's ivy'd wall,
Shook by the wind, would often fall;
Dear was the sound its waters made,
As down the pebbled slope they play'd.
I hear not now its mimic roar,
Seiz'd by the frost it sounds no more;
But dreary, mnte, and sad it stands,
Torpid beneath chill winter's hands.
Stern Power! be mine with wary feet,
On the bleak heath thy form to meet

Full oft, but only when the day
Of half its terrors robs thy sway;
Ne'er be my daring footsteps found
On aught but closely shelter'd ground,
When Thou and Night, disastrous pair!
With fear and darkness fill the air.

SONNET, Supposed to be written by the unhappy Poet Dermody, in a Storm,

while on board a Ship in His Majesty's Service

H. K. White.

LO! o'er the welkin the tempestuous clouds

Successive fly, and the loud-piping wind Rocks the poor sea-boy on the dripping shrouds,

While the pale pilot, o'er the helm reclin'd, Lists to the changeful storm: and as he plies His wakeful task, he oft bethinks him sad,

Of wife, and little home, and chubby lad,
And the half strangled tear bedews his eyes;
I, on the deck, musing on themes forlorn,

View the drear tempest, and the yawning deep,
Nought dreading in the green sea's caves to sleep,
For not for me shall wife or children mourn,
And the wild winds will ring my funeral knell,
Sweetly, as solemn peal of pious passing-bell.

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