VERSES, COPIED FROM THE WINDOW OF AN OBSCURE LODGING-HOUSE IN LONDON. STRANGER, whate'er thou art, whose restless mind, Monthly Miscellany. * Macbeth, THE TEAR. How prone the bosom is to sigh! When saints lift up their souls in pray’r, When ev'ry parting pang is o'er, When, by the heart, with sorrow griev'd, When two fond lover's doom'd to part, Where wretches on the earth reclin'd, Where one friend sees another bleed, If, on some lovely creature's face, When mothers (O! the grateful sight) When lovers see the beautious maid, When two dear friends, of kindred mind, But when the wretch, with sins oppress'd, Monthly Miscellany. ODE, BY JOHN RANNIE. I cannot but remember such things were, SHAKESPEARL. Scenes of my youth! ye once were dear, Tho' sadly I your charms survey; I once was wont to linger here, From early dawn to closing day. Scenes of my youth! pale sorrow flings A shade o'er all your beauties now; And robs the moments of their wings, That scatter pleasure as they flow. While, still, to heighten ev'ry care, Reflection tells me, such things were. 'Twas here a tender mother strove To keep my happiness in view; I smild beneath a parent's love, That soft compassion ever knew. In whom the virtues all combin'd; Ou whom I could with faith rely; To whom my heart and soul were join'd, By mild affection's primal tie! Who smiles in heav'n, exempt from care, Whilst I remember, such things were. 'Twas here, where calm and tranquil rest O’erpays the peasant for his toil, That, first in blessing, I was bless'd With glowing friendship’s open smile. My friend far distant dooin’d to roam, Now braves the fury of the seas ; He fled his peaceful happy home, His little fortune to encrease. While bleeds afresh the wound of care, When I remember, such things were. 'Twas here, ev’n in this silent grove, I fondly gaz'd on Laura's charms, Who, blushing, own'd a mutual love, And melted in my youthful arms. 'Tho' hard the soul-conflicting strife, Yet fate, the cruel tyrant, bore Far from my sight the charm of life The lovely maid whom I adoré. 'Twould ease my soul of all its care, Cou'd I forget that such things were. |