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.

Literary Magazine.

VERSES. Sir John Henry More, Bart, who died in the year 1780,

about the age of 25: His true poetical powers cannot
be better proved than by the following lines, which he
wrote to a Lady a few months before his death, being
then in an evident decay :
Ir in that breast, so good, so pure,

Compassion ever lov’d to dwell,
Pity the sorrows I endure,

The cause I must not-dare not tell.

The grief that on my quiet preys,

That rends my heart, that checks my tongue,
I fear will last me all my days,
But feel--it will not last me long.

Della Crusca.

A WINTER PIECE.

was

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.

Literary Magazine.

Vesper erat; campis et nix hyemosa ruebat,
Stridebatque, aquilo, per loca mæsta situ;
Hæc, incerta viæ, peragrabat sola puella,
Infantemque præmens, cæpit acerba queri.

“ Heu! pater ille ferus, natæ qui tecte negavit,
“ Et fera, quæ vidit talia, mater erat,
“ Et fera vis venti est, quæ sic mea pectora tundit,
“ At, mihi qui nummos prætulit, ille magis.

“ Parvule mi, taceas, gremio renovesque calorem;
“ Ah! nescit genitor, nos mala quanta premunt;
“ Si nostros sciret, durus licet, ille dolores
“ Vix hyemum miseros lædere vellet acrem.

“ Blandulæ væ! friges, friges; calor ossa reliquit;
“ Suscitet ex occulis fervida gutta meis!.
“ Fervida, gutta fluit, sed congelat aura fluentem;
“ Ah! nunc infelix, orbaque mater ego.”

Jam nive congesta misere prolabitur exspes
Intandumque gemit, quod dolor intus agit;
Tum lateri natum apponens, atque oscula figens
Suspicit, et flectit, morte gravata caput.

Prolusiones Poeticæ.

TO HOPE.

FRIEND of the wretch whose bosoin bleeds,

A prey to anguish and despair,
When tort'ring thought to thought succeeds,
When life is scarcely worth our care,

Oh! hither come, and smile on me,
The helpless child of misery.

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,
E’er hateful wastes the parting day,
“ E’er life itself can charm no more,”

In pity come, and smile on me,
The helpless child of misery,

But if I court thine aid in vain,

If slow reluctance guides thine eye,
Death then alone can ease my pain,
And hush to peace the rising sigh :

He sets the pining captive free,
And gives the balm for misery.

Literary Magazine.

THE TENDER WISH.
From her, alas ! whose smile was love,

I wander to some lonely cell ;
My sighs too weak the maid to move,

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.

Peter Pindar.