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To the Lyre of Eolus,

Yet once more, airy spirits, and once more,
Wake that high strain! those solemn notes inspire,
Which kindling in my breast extatic fire,

Wake joy, wake rapture, never felt before!

Art, and her twanging strings and tink'ling wire
Are discord all! harsh as the tempest's roar,
Harsh as the wild waves dashing on the shore,
Compar'd with those high notes, Æolian lyre!
And not unhallow'd he, nor to the nine

A stranger swain that woos thee, though he hear, Unmov'd, art's various sons in concert join,

And quavering minstrels trill their notes so clear; He drinks, with raptur'd and retentive ear, The muse's sacred harmony and thine,

To the river Scar.

Soft flowing Scar, what though along the vale,
In scanty stream thy ling'ring waters glide ;-
For thee though commerce never spread the sail,
Nor mart nor city crown thy sedgy side:
Yet thee, when trafie's unsubstantial pride
Moulder in dust, and trade's proud empire fail
To roll in cumb'rous pomp its golden tide,
Thee, gentle stream, shall fame and genius hail!

Since all beside thy waters fair,

His dwelling, oft our Potter

*

that lave

loves to stray,

And strike that high-ton'd harp that Phoebus gave;

For thus for ever shalt thou win thy way In the smooth lapse of many a liquid lay, And future bards shall hail thy classic wave.

* The translator of Eschylus.

To the river Stour.

Dear native stream; ah! dearer far to me

Than Thames, though grandeur crown his margin gay; And not the Loire, all lovely though he be

And passing fair, could woo my thoughts away, Forgetful of thy banks of green ;—nor she,

The yellow Seine, whose peaceful waters play Through Gallia's plains, could lure my heart from thee, That faithful heart, which knows not how to stray ! Dear native stream, lov'd Stour! to thee were paid My earliest vows, and thou my last shalt have :And, as my earliest steps were wont to tread,

So shall my last, thy banks, paternal wave! And you ye trembling willows, wont to shade My youthful pastimes;-ye shall shade my grave !

From the Italian; on a magnificent ruin, of whose
history no traces are to be found, even by tradition.
Say, father Time! to crown whose emprise high
Was this proud pile thou now destroy'st decreed? :
Say father Time?-but, heedless of reply,

Onward he wings his flight with swifter speed.-
Say then, O Fame! for thou forbid'st to die

Heroic worth ;-to crown whose glorious deed?
Silent and sad she turns, with tear-swoln eye,
Like one forlorn, and quits the ravag'd mead.-
I turn'd-and, wand'ring mid the mass divine,
Beheld oblivion stalk, with giant stride,
From arch to arch o'er all the proud design;

"Tell then,-for thou perhaps canst tell !"-I cried; With harsh hoarse voice and stern the fiend replied "Whose once it was what heed I!-now 'tis mine!"

From the Italian of Faustina Maratti, daughter of the

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celebrated painter; addressed to a lady of whom she 2 was jealous.*

Lady! who once the husband of my choice

So well could'st please, that fondly still he tells Of all thy charms, and still with rapture dwells On those dear laughing lips, and sweeter voice. Lady! I pray thee tell, when thou art by,

When thou accosts him, does he turn from thee Like one who hears not!—or with troubled eye And stern, regard thee, as he looks on me?That once he sigh'd, the subject of thy will,

I know, and then I knew ;-but tell me, fair, Why turn those eyes to earth, and fix them there? And why those cheeks do burning blushes fill? Speak, I conjure thee, speak!-but oh! forbear If thou must tell me that he loves thee still.

From the Spanish of Cervantes.

From this dire plain, which tow'rs and bastions strew, In rude and shapeless ruin scatter'd wide;

From hence in better mansions to reside,

The spirits of ten thousand soldiers flew.
But first what duty bade, what force might do,
With bold and puissant arm in vain they tried ;
They fought with dauntless courage 'till they died
O'erpowr'd with numbers, feeble grown and few.
The fated country this, which still has been,
In past and present times, of mighty woes
And dire events, the lamentable scene:

*See also page 386.

But never from its bare and parched breast,

To heaven's bright mansions purer spirits rose,Nor braver forms its barren deserts prest.

Written in a volume in which were collected most of the
little histories that are put into the hands of children.
If e'er these warblings wild, these rude essays,
These lispings of the muse, should reach thine ear,
O Pedant! spare the critic frown severe,
Nor scorn the labours of her infant days:
Twas then,--ah were it still!-her pride and praise,
That vice rejected, virtue ever dear,

With gentle charity, her fair compeer,

Adorn'd her plain told tales and artless lays.
But though the tale be plain, the lay be rude,
Yet not unskilful he, the bard that drew
Our patron saint with dragon's blood embru’d;
Or him, the tyrant with the beard of blue;
Or those dear children wand'ring in the wood,"
Embalm❜d for aye, with pity's holy dew.

On the death of Miss E. Airson.

What joy, her hospitable father's guest,
Oft have I felt whilst fair Eliza sung!

And ah! what anguish seiz'd my aching breast
When Death, stern tyrant! stopp'd that tuneful

tongue.

Oh, if forgetful proves this aching heart,

Ne'er may the nine my languid lays inspire!

And may these hands forget their dearest art,

To touch the trembling string, and wake the lyre! If e'er I blot her memory from my mind,

May all my songs severest censures prove; And fate relentless scatter to the wind

My hopes of fame, of fortune, and of love! No, gentle songstress! still the morn shall see And watchful eve, the tears I shed for thee.

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Fairly blows the western gale,

Rear the mast, and spread the sail;
Haste, ye valiant sons of Thor,

Hasten, hasten to the war!

To Albion's isle, my compeers brave,

Steer we our course, and plough the wave :

Our passage o'er the smiling main,

Leads to glory and to gain.

Advent'rous to the shores of Kent,
With royal Hengist, Horsa went;
And safely o'er the swelling sea,
Dauntless led their squadrons three:
Brother chieftains now they reign,
Their's the glory, their's the gain!
And the gain and glory there
We will seek and we will share!

Fairly blows the western gale!
Now, O native soil, farewell!
War-worn parents, wives ador'd,
Babes that flourish round our board,
Ah fare
ye well! for never more
Will we seek our native shore,

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