To a Rose growing on the Grave of a Lady
Epitaph on Rosa, Countess of Warwick...
The Peasant's Curse--From the Irish

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ORIGINAL POEMS.

CHELTENHAM ANTHOLOGY.

ERRATA.

In the Contents, page viii. line 14,-Irish Melody, for W.H.H.

read N.I.H.

Page 85, line 2, for whould, read would.

109, Read-THY laws, oh Love! are cruel and unblest

The hearts, &c.

At pages 160 and 161, two Translations have been printed
amongst the Original Poems.

Un, that the springs of CLA

Before I doom'd thee to a foreign land,

Torn from my arms, to save thee from the sword.

B

CHELTENHAM ANTHOLOGY.

FROM

THE ELECTRA OF SOPHOCLES.

ELECTRA HOLDS IN HER HAND AN URN WHICH SHE SUPPOSES

TO CONTAIN THE ASHES OF HER BROTHER.

OH, thou memorial of my best belov'd!
Poor remnant of Orestes! ill responding

To those fair hopes with which I sent thee hence—
Lo! in my hands I bear thee,-nothing now:
How bright and glorious did I send thee forth!
Oh, that the springs of ebbing life had fail'd,
Before I doom'd thee to a foreign land,

Torn from my arms, to save thee from the sword.

B

Then dying, thou hadst slept in peace, and found
A common portion of thy father's tomb.
But now, exil'd, a lonely fugitive,

Thou fallest, hapless, from thy sister sever'd.
It was not mine, thy decent limbs to lay;
Nor was it mine, though well it had become me,
To bear thine ashes from the blazing pile;

But, by strange hands compos'd, thou comest here,
A little heap within a narrow urn.

Alas! alas! the ineffectual care

With which I rear'd thy youth in happier times,

A toil to me most sweet; assuredly

Thy mother lov'd thee not as I have lov'd thee; No servant tended-was not I thy nurse?

Was I not called the Sister of Orestes?

Now, in one day, those cares have fruitless prov'd,
Dying with thee; for, sweeping all away,
Like the impetuous whirlwind, thou departest!
Gone is my father;-I have died with thee!
My foes exult; my mother, oh, no mother!
Is madden'd with her joy; concerning whom
Thou oft didst send me intimation sweet,