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of poetry, so long as the language in which it is written exists. The composition is perfect, there is not a defective line nor a faulty word. Two objections however may be made to it. It is of temporary application, and not adapted for “all time.” It is complex, refering to three different states of enjoyment, love, drinking, and loyalty. The climax, if we may be allowed to call it so, in the succession of metaphors is well adapted, and the last stanza is altogether admirable.
To General Goring, after the pacification of Berwick.
is made at the foes rate, Whilst men at arms to kettles their old helnis translate, And drink.in casques of honourable plate; In every hand a cup be found, That from all hearts a health may sound, To Goring! to Goring! see't go round.
He whose glories shine so bright and high,
To his lovely bride in love with scars,
eyes wound deep in peace as doth his sword in wars, They shortly must depose the queen of stars : Her cheeks the morning's blushes gire, And the benighted world reprieve; To Lettice! to Lettice! let her live.
Give me scorching heat, thy heat dry sun,
On the death of Mrs. Cassandra Cotton, only sister to
Mr. C. Cotton.
Hither with hallowed steps as is the ground
and incense fume, who are at strife
And when y' have plac'd your tapers on her urn,
tribute 'tis to weep and mourn ! That flood the channels of your eyelids fills, When
lose trifles, or what's less your wills.
There, with her, triumph in your victory,
faint to be so blest: oh hear!
A LA BOURBON.
Donnez moi plus de pitie ou plus de cruaulte car sans
ci je ne puis pas vivre, ni mourir.
Divine destroyer, pity me no more,
Or else more pity me!
Or else more cruelty !
Your glories are eclipsed, and hidden in the grave
Of this indifferency;
Nor I a deity :
Culling Lucasta from her retirement.
From the dire monument of thy black room,
Sacred Lucasta, like the powerful ray
Arise, and climb our whitest highest hill,
Behold how lightning like a taper flies
Threatning and boist'rous tempests gently bow, And to your steps part in soft paths, when now There no where hangs a cloud, but on your brow.
No show'rs but 'twixt your lids, nor gelid snow, But what
whiter chaster breast doth owe, Whilst winds in chains colder your sorrow's blow.
Shrill trumpets now do only sound to eat,
All things, Lucasta, but Lucasta call,
Awake from the dead vault in which you dwell,
See ! she obeys!-by all obeyed thus,
Lovers and angels, though in heaven they show,
To comprehend this little Ode justly, the unhappy state of the country when it was written, must be borne in mind ;-the theatre of civil war and overrun by contending armies, and armed parties, who were frequently influenced by the desire of pillage and spoil, to attack private houses, and distress the helpless inhabitants. No caution was a complete security, and no retreat, however obscure and remote, a protection from insult and outrage.
'Mongst the world's wonders, there doth yet remain