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Here first I saw the morn appear
Of guiltless pleasure's shining day; I met the dazzling brightness here,
Here mark’d the soft declining rayBeheld the skies, whose streaming light
Gave splendour to the parting sun; Now lost in sorrow's sable night,
And all their mingled glories gone! 'Till death, in pity, end my care, I must remember such things were.
VERSES. Sir John Henry More, Bart, who died in the year 1780,
about the age of 25: His true poetical powers cannot
Compassion ever lov’d to dwell,
The cause I must not-dare not tell.
The grief that on my quiet preys,
That rends my heart, that checks my tongue,
A WINTER PIECE.
It was a winter's evening, and fast came down the snow, And keenly o'er the wide heath the bitter blast did blow, When a damsel all forlorn, quite bewildered in her way, Press'd her baby to her bosom, and sadly thus did say :
“Oh! cruel was my father, that shut his door on me! “And cruel was my mother that such a sight could see; “ And cruel is the wintry wind that chills my heart with
cold, « But crueller than all, the lad that left my love for gold!
“ Hush, hush, my lovely baby, and warm thee in my
breast, “ Ah! little thinks thy father how sadly we're distrest! ~ For cruel as he is, did he know but how we fare, “ He'd shield us in his arms from this tter piercing air.
" Cold, cold, my dearest jewel! thy little life is gone! « Oh, let my tears revive thee! so warm that trickle down; “ My tears that gush so warm, oh! they freeze before
they fall, “ Ah! wretched, wretched mother! thou’rt now bereft Then down she sunk, despairing, upon the drifted snow, And, wrung with killing anguish, lamented loud her woe: She kiss'd her baby's pale lips, and laid it by her side, Then cast her eyes to heaven, and bow'd her head and died.
Vesper erat; campis et nix hyemosa ruebat,
“ Heu! pater ille ferus, natæ qui tecte negavit,
“ Parvule mi, taceas, gremio renovesque calorem;
“ Blandulæ væ! friges, friges; calor ossa reliquit;
Jam nive congesta misere prolabitur exspes
FRIEND of the wretch whose bosoin bleeds,
A prey to anguish and despair,
Oh! hither come, and smile on me,
To me how sweet life's early dawn,
And, oh! how sweet youth's rosy hours; I gaily sported on the lawn, And rov'd amid my native bow'rs; But manhood chang’d the scene of glee, And brought me woe and misery.
E’er, then, to wan despair a prey,
E'er sorrow's bitter cup runs o'er,
In pity come, and smile on me,
But if I court thine aid in vain,
If slow reluctance guides thine eye,
He sets the pining captive free,
THE TENDER WISH.
I wander to some lonely cell ;
I bid the flatt'rer hope farewell!
Be all her little arts forgot,
That fill’d my bosom with alarms; Ah! let her crime-a little spot
Be lost amid her blaze of charins.
As on I wander slow, my sighs
At ev'ry step, for Cynthia mourn; My anxious heart within me dies,
And sinking whispers “ O return."
Deluded heart! thy folly know,
Nor fondly nurse the fatal flame; By absence thou shalt lose thy woe, And only flutter at her name.