SONG.

THE season comes when first we met,
But you return no more;
Why cannot I the days forget,

Which time can ne'er restore?

O days too sweet, too bright to last,
Are
you indeed forever past?

The fleeting shadows of delight,
In memory I trace;

In fancy stop their rapid flight,
And all the past replace:

But, ah, I wake to endless woes,
And tears the fading visions close!

SONG.

O TUNEFUL Voice! I still deplore
Those accents which, tho' heard no more,

Still vibrate on my heart;

In echo's cave I long to dwell,

And still would hear the sad farewell,

When we were doom'd to part.

Bright eyes, O that the task were mine,
To guard the liquid fires that shine,
And round your orbits play;

To watch them with a vestal's care,
And feed with smiles a light so fair,
That it may ne'er decay.

Written for, and adapted to, an original
Indian Air.

THE sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day, But glory remains when their lights fade away: Begin, you tormentors! your threats are in vain, For the son of Alknomook will never complain.

Remember the arrows he shot from his bow, Remember your chiefs, by his hatchet laid low: Why so slow? Do you wait till I shrink from the pain?

No; the son of Alknomook shall never complain.

Remember the wood, where in ambush we lay, And the scalps which we bore from your nation

away:

Now the flame rises fast; you exult in my pain; But the son of Alknomook can never complain.

I go to the land where my father is gone,
His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son:
Death comes like a friend to relieve me from pain;
And thy son, O Alknomook! has scorn'd to
complain.

TO MY DAUGHTER,

On being separated from her on her Marriage.

DEAR to my heart as life's warm stream,
Which animates this mortal clay,

For thee I court the waking dream,
And deck with smiles the future day;

And thus beguile the present pain
With hopes that we shall meet again.

Yet will it be, as when the past

Twin'd every joy, and care, and thought,
And o'er our minds one mantle cast

Of kind affections finely wrought?
Ah no! the groundless hope were vain,
For so we ne'er can meet again !

May he who claims thy tender heart Deserve its love, as I have done! For, kind and gentle as thou art,

If so belov'd, thou'rt fairly won. Bright may the sacred torch remain, And cheer thee till we meet again!

HESTHER LYNCH PIOZZI,

Born 1739, died 1821,

More distinguished as the friend and hostess of Johnson, than as an authoress, was the daughter of John Salusbury, Esq., of Bodvel in Caernarvonshire: her first husband was Mr. Thrale, an eminent brewer; her second, Signior Piozzi, a music-master.

The superiority of The Three Warnings to her other poetical pieces, has excited suspicions that Johnson assisted her in its composition: it first appeared in "The Miscellanies" of Mrs. Anna Williams.

The Three Warnings.

THE tree of deepest root is found
Least willing still to quit the ground;
'Twas therefore said, by ancient sages,
That love of life increas'd with years
So much, that in our latter stages,
When pain grows sharp, and sickness rages,
The greatest love of life appears:

This great affection to believe,

Which all confess, but few perceive,