Then come, my little dwelling share, Ah! let the great by error led, More blest to rove the heath along, More blest by oak, that, cleft alone, More blest nigh yonder darkling dell, And mourn till morn his cheerless lot. But, oh! far happier, if at night, As onward rolls the sadd'ning morn, Sweet as the first drawn sigh of love, Above bright pow'r, gay wealth above, To thee my willing vows be paid. Monthly Review. TO THE BLACKBIRD. ALL hail, lovely songster! sweet muse of the grove! Thy melodious inflection's the peasants' delight, thorn. O! ne'er in those shades may the clarion of war, But as oft in its morn, so in life's silent eve, W. Holloway. LOVE. LOVE! 'tis my torment, my pleasure, my bane, It encreases each care, yet softens each pain; 'Tis a flame that unceasingly turns in my breast, It lights me to joy, yet deprives me of rest. 'Tis a fetter of roses, an adamant chain, It is link'd round my heart where 'twill ever remain. 'Tis a hope that I cherish with sedulous care, 'Tis à grief that I nourish tho' drown'd in despair. *Tis a charm that enchants by its magical art, Yet has robb'd me of reason, of peace, and my heart. 'Tis a freedom, a bondage, that binds me its slave, 'Tis a health, yet a sickness, that leads to the grave. 'Tis a pearl of soft pity that drops from the eye, That saddens its lustre and prompts the quick sigh... 'Tis a light that illumines my devious way, Yet a darkness that fatally leads me astray. 'Tis the bud of a flower, if cherish'd aright, That will blossom to happiness, joy and delight. Much 'een shou'd you plant by adversity's rill, The cold blasts of poverty never can kill. Said to be written by a French Emigrant. VERSES TAKEN FROM WALPOLE'S ANTIQUITIES, AND WERE NEVER PUBLISHED. Sir Henry Lea was master of the armoury to Queen Elizabeth, and made a vow to present himself. annually at the tilt, armed, there to perform in honour of her majesty's accession to the throne. Becoming at length very old, he resigned the office, and on this occasion presented the following verses to her majesty: My golden locks time hath to silver turn'd, (Oh time too swift, and swiftness never ceasing!) My youth 'gainst age, and age at youth have spurn'd, But spurn'd in vain. Youth waineth by increasing. Beauty, strengthe, and youthe, flowers fading beene; Duty, faith, and love are roots, and ever-greene. My helmet now shall make an hive for bees, And when I sadly sit in homely cell, I'le teach my swain this carol for a song: London Magazine, STANZAS WRITTEN BY LORD CAPEL WHEN A PRISONER IN THE TOWER, DURING CROMWELL'S USURPATION. BEAT On, proud billows! Boreas, blow! Swell, curled waves, high as Jove's roof; Your incivilities do plainly show That innocence is tempest-proof. Tho' surly Nereus frowns, my thoughts are calm; Then strike, affliction, for thy wounds are balm. That which the world miscalls a jail, Here sin-for want of food-must starve, Malice is now grown charitable, sure |