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Where, as he painted every blissful view,
Ah! fly temptation, youth ; refrain ! refrain,
Lo ! now with red rent cloak and bonnet black, And torn green gown loose hanging at her back, One who an infant in her arms sustains, And seems in patience striving with her pains ; Pinch'd are her looks, as one who pines for bread, Whose cares are growing and whose hopes are
fled; Pale her parch'd lips, her heavy eyes sunk low, And tears unnoticed from their channels flow; Serene her manner, till some sudden pain Frets the meek soul, and then she's calm again :Her broken pitcher to the pool she takes, And every step with cautious terror makes ; For not alone that infant in her arms, But nearer cause, her anxious soul alarms
With water burthen'd, then she picks her way,
Friend of distress! the mourner feels thy aid, She cannot pay thee, but thou wilt be paid.
But who this child of weakness, want, and care ? 'Tis Phæbe Dawson, pride of Lammas Fair ; Who took her lover for his sparkling eyes, Expressions warm, and love-inspiring lies : Compassion first assail'd her gentle heart, For all his suffering, all his bosom's smart :
66 And then his prayers ! they would a savage
Then fly temptation, youth ; resist, refrain !
REV. GEORGE CROLY.
PERICLES AND ASPASIA.
This was the ruler of the land,
When Athens was the land of fame;
When each was like a living flame;
Yet not by fetter, nor by spear,
His sovereignty was held or won : Feared—but alone as freemen fear ;
Loved-but as freemen love alone ;
He waved the sceptre o'er his kind
Resistless words were on his tongue,
Then Eloquence first flash'd below; Full arm'd to life the portent sprung,
Minerva from the thunderer's brow ! And his the sole, the sacred hand, That shook her Ægis o'er the land.
And throned immortal by his side,
A woman sits with eye sublime,
But, if their solemn love were crime,
He perished ;-but his wreath was won,
He perished in his height of fame : Then sunk the cloud on Athens' sun,
Yet still she conquer'd in his name. Fill'd with his soul, she could not die ; Her conquest was Posterity !
THE MINSTREL'S HOUR. WHEN day is done, and clouds are low,
And flowers are honey-dew, And Vesper's lamp begins to burn
Along the western blue, And homeward wing the turtle-doves, Then comes the hour the minstrel loves.
And still as shakes the sudden breeze,
The forest's deepening shade,
The silver serenade;
The star that peeps the leaves between
To him is but a light,
Shines to her pilgrim knight,
Or if some wandering peasant's song
Come sweeten'd from the vale,
Around the altar's pale ;
FROM SEBASTIAN, A SPANISH TALE. THE sound came from a large and lofty tent, Tissued with emblems of Spain's ancient wars ; Through the slight silk the myrtle breathed its
scent, And pour’d their beams, the blue and midnight
stars. Raised like an idol, on the slight ascent Of a low, central tripod sat a Moor, The young magician of those sounds: the floor,