Without, no baneful blast invade,
Conceal'd no inward canker prey;
Till all thy charms are full display'd,
And flourish in the face of day.

Then may some happier hand than mine,
As firm, as fond, as void of art,
With his thy future fate entwine,
And wear thee nearest to his heart.

DRY those tears! like melted ore, Fast dropping on my heart they fall: Think, think no more of me; no more The mem'ry of past scenes recall.

On a wild sea of passion tost,

I split upon the fatal shelf;

i

. Friendship and love at once are lost,

And now I wish to lose myself.

Lionel and Clarissa.

SONG TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

On cease thy song, sweet Philomel!
Be hush'd the voices of the grove,
Let only fay'ring zephyrs swell,
To waft my sighs to him I love.

Ah no! sweet bird! thy strains prolong,
And court him hither to my breast;
Allure him with thy magic song,
By love to bless and to be blest.

Sweet melody the mind inspires,
And melody, sweet bird, is thine:
Enchant thou him my soul desires,
To equalize a love like mine.

Sweet Philomel! prolong thy strain,
Accordant to a lover's breast,

And hither charın my absent swain,
By love to bless and to be blest.

Monthly Review.

BALLAD.

DARK was the night, the children slept,
Poor Mary clim'd the cottage stair,
And at her chamber window wept,
And plac'd a little taper there.

"Why does he tarry thus?" she cried, "Alas! what pains dó I endure! Heavens grant this taper be his guide, And lead rim safe across the moor."

At length his well known voice she hears;

"He comes, my terror to remove! My William comes to dry my tears:" And down she flies to meet her love.

William all pale and bloody stood;
Sigh'd out "alas no more we meet!
I'm stabb'd by robbers in the wood."
Then fell a corse at Mary's feet.

Coleman. LINES

FOUND IN A BOWER FACING THE SOUTH.

SOFT cherub of the southern breeze,
Oh! thou, whose voice I love to hear,
When ling'ring thro' the rustling trees,
With lengthen'd sighs it sooths mine ear:

Oh! thou, whose fond embrace to meet,
The young spring all enamour'd flies,
And robs thee of thy kisses sweet,
And on thee pours her laughing eyes!

Thou, at whose call the light fays start,
That silent in their hidden bow'r
Lie penciling with tend'rest art,
The blossom thin and infant flow'r!

Soft cherub of the southern breeze,

Oh! if aright I tune the reed,
Which thus thine ear would hope to please
By simple lay, and humble meed;

And if aright, with anxious zeal,

My willing hands this bow'r have made, Still let this bow'r thine influence feel, And be its gloom thy fav'rite shade!

For thee, of all the cherub train,
Alone my votive muse would woo,

Of all that skim along the main,
Or walk at dawn yon mountains blue;

Of all that slumber'd in the grove,

Or playful urge the gossamer's flight, Or down the vale or streamlet move, With whisper soft and pinion light.

I court thee, thro' the glinım'ring air,
When morning springs from slumbers still,
And waving bright his golden hair,
Stands tip-toe on yon eastern hill..

I court thee, when at noon reclin'd,

I watch the murmuring insect throng
In many an airy spiral wind,
Or silent climb the leaf along.

I court thee, when the flow'rets close,
And drink no more receding light;
And when calm eve to soft repose
Sinks on the bosom of the night.

And, when beneath the moon's pale beam,
Alone 'mid shadowy rocks I roam,
And waking visions round me gleam
Of beings and of worlds to come...