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A CHARM, OR RECIPE,

FOR A TALE OF WONDER.

Or mortal groans,

And blood, and bones,

Take a vast witch-cauldron measure

Let shrieks and yells

From gothic hells,

Augment th' infernal treasure:

While fiends down shower

From some fog-spawn'd power. Torn human limbs for brewis

And lightnings blue

Gleam forth to view,

The spectre-shop of LEWIS.

SONNET.

BY S. E. BRYDGES ESQ.

THE tempest, long collected in the sky,

Now bursting, drives the wave upon the shore, That breaking throws its clouds of spray on high, And quick retreats with melancholy roar:

Another and another comes, and each

Yet louder than the last, with growing pride Seems o'er the cliff's opposing heights to reach; And o'er the land with uncheck'd fury ride. With joy sublime, safe in the distant tower

We hear the mingling elements to strive! But think of those, whom in this aweful hour On the dread wave the blasts before them drive, Whose feeble bark, now lifted to the clouds, Now the deep Ocean's sad abyss enshrouds!

* SONNET.

AT THE SEPULCHRE OF PETRARCH.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF LAZZARINI DI MORRO.

BY MISS BANNERMAN.

WHAT lingering years have fled since first I hung
With youthful rapture o'er thy hallow'd urn:
Yet still I wander where that lyre was strung
Yet still in hoary age to thee I turn.

Even in this time-chill'd heart where no return Of new-born life shall rouse the expiring flame; Warm in its pristine youth, nor faint, nor worne, Glows the first transport which awak'd thy name. That soul sublime, whose ever-living fires

Shed on my early days their fairy bloom;

Now, on my tottering age, when hope retires. Lends its sweet lustre to beguile the gloom: O that my spirit, which to thine aspires, Like thine could live and triumph o'er the tomb.

From Mr. Walker's Memoir on the Italian Tragedy.

SONNET.

BY MR. R. A. DAVENPORT.

SWEET Birds, who dwell beneath this Grove's thick

shade,

I come, depressed and weighed to earth by wrong, Unheard by all the sickening, soul-less throng, To mourn vain hopes, and love but ill repaid. Blithe minstrels, now no guileful feet invade

Your haunts, then fly not as I rove along, But rather kindly strive, with charmful song To give my throbbing heart some little aid! Sing on, sweet Birds, nor fear from me annoy; Your nests I harm not, nor your offspring steal: Not mine the gloomy pleasure to destroy. He who, by change of giddy Fortune's wheel, Has seen himself of many a cherished joy Rudely bereft, for all that lives can feel.

SONNET,

IN SPRING.

BY MISS A. M. PORTER.

WHILST fresh and green, the trees around me sway,
And chearful Zephyr pipes, their glades among;
Whilst the bright Moon like bashful Bride of day,
With silver feet, walketh the heavens along-
O Nightingale! thy melancholy song

I hear, and wonder why so sad a lay,
Still waits not, on the passing year's decay,

When scatter'd leaves the lonely valleys throng.Why, gentle Bird! in April's spangled woods,

On primrose banks, pour'st thou melodious tears, When beds of faded boughs, and wither'd buds, Neglected Autumn's cold and moist hand rears? She o'er thy heavy griefs would weep in floods,

Whilst the gay Spring, insulting them appears.

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