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-Quando nel ciel parean le stelle
Tutto gioioso a suo magion tornava;
E’n compagnia delle nove sorelle,
Celesti versi con disio cantava.


When evening's star its milder lustre lends,

The wanderer to his cheerful home retires, There every muse his lov'd return attends, And generous aims, and heavenly verse inspires.


Of the pieces which compose this number, the second and the third have been contributed by my friends.

The poem on Content, which, if friendship deceive me not, is entitled to no small praise, both for its versification and its sentiment, is the production of the Rev. Francis Drake, B. D. to whom, in my second volume, I have already been indebted for an elegant translation of a satire of Horace.

The Line's to Zephyr are written by a Lady, whose name I am not at liberty to mention, but whose taste and talents will, 1 have no doubt, from this specimen, be very favourably appreciated by the reader.

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Auditis? An me ludit amabilis


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O Nymph of magic power possest, To light the poets youthful breast, To bid the fire-clad thought arise And dare to claim her native skies, Who lov'st to roam the haunted glade, Mid Tadmor's falling domes to stray, Or on lone Teneriff's summit laid With Fiction wake the thrilling lay; O quick descend support the strain Thro' all the theme unbounded reign And pierce the depths of thought, Whether from Terror's wizard store, Or simple Nature's varied lore, Clad in her wild-wood garb, the forceful

scene be brought.

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O tell me from what air-crown'd steep, Thou view'st the world of waters deep, And listen'st to the howling wave That foaming beats the shell-hung cave; Or on what rock's rude-clifted side, Mid storm and tempest you reside: Say, do thy footsteps ever fail Where rich in perfume steals the gale, Where winds the fretted stream along, Thro' the green grove her murm’ring song? O tell me where at purple dawn To taste the dewy breath of morn, Or where at eve's encrimson'd ray, Thou wont the woodland wild to stray !

3. Say, rov’st thou where at twilight brown, Yon antique halls, with moss o'ergrown, Frown o'er the deep-retiring vale? There still the pilgrim chaunts the tale Of high-pil'd feast and pageantry, Of tournament and revelry, Of domes that shook with sudden sound Of mirthful peers assembled round, While loud the minstrel 'gan to sing, And warbling swept the lyric string;

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