While dying Twilight's mournful sighs The plaintive minstrelsy of eve, Shall charm th' enthusiast's lab'ring breast, Oh! it will calm thy fever'd brain, One thought upon the world bestow. In my lone dell, by Nature blest, Where her sky-tinted chaplets bloom, No madd'ning sorrow rends the breast, Nor sways in visionary gloom. To Virtue, Taste, and Genius dear, Profane my consecrated hour. That witching voice no more shall charm, Oh, when the lightnings of her eye I'll nerve thy soul with powers sublime, To triumph o'er the fateful past,. That clouds the morning of thy days, While bright through Fate's o'erwhelming blast Shall living beams of glory blaze. Then seek my deep-embow'ring grove- STANZAS ON SPRING. ANONYMOUS. STERN Winter has fled, And now in his stead Sweet Spring, Nature's fondling, commences her reign: The green leaves are shooting- With notes of delight her return to the plain. The Sun looking gay On his heav'nly way, Careers in his glory, and smiles on the world; Young flow'rets are growing, And Pleasure's bright standard is widely unfurl'd: While snow-drops around Are adorning the ground, And lilies appear in their simple array, In walks green and mazy, The crocus, the daisy, The vi'let and primrose, enliven our way. The linnets in throngs Pour out their glad songs, The bullfinch replies from the fresh-springing grove; The lark, gaily flitt'ring, Unites his shrill twitt'ring; The stock-dove complains in low murmurs of love. The soft-gliding streams That dart from the soul-cheering fountain of light; Where umbrage is darkling, The pure water sparkling, Like diamonds is glancing, and cheering the sight. Hail season so pleasing, Glad earth from the bondage of Winter's fell power, Invites us to wander In careless meander, To gaze on the beauties of grove, mead, or flower. Sweet Spring! could my lyre Of sounding a strain that is worthy of thee, In loftily chanting Thy praise, when thou clothest the shrub and the tree. MONODY On the death of the Princess Charlotte of Wales and Saxe-Cobourg. FROM THE FRENCH OF M. SURENNE. Ye palaces, cities, groves, forests, and glades, Now shroud all your beauties in night's deepest shades! For our crown's brightest gem, the delight of our eyes, And the joy of our hearts, in the sepulchre lies! O Heaven! what dreadful infliction of woe! The Offspring, the Blossom, the Rose of the State! Sun, hide thy bright fires, for with Britain there reigns Such woe, that thou canst not illumine her plains; Fly, gay Polyhymnia, far from our shore- And compose a wild concert of grief all around. Ye Rivers and Brooks, change your beds from our strand, And offer your streams to some happier land: For the fast-flowing tears which Britannia yields, Shall be the sole show'rs that shall nourish her fields. Ye Winds, oh! in pity your breezes restrain, Nor augment with shrill bowlings our anguish and pain; For the breath that proceeds from our heart-rending sighs, For our days doom'd to sorrow, shall amply suffice. Dire Atropos, thou by whom ruin is brought, What merciless havock is this thou hast wrought? Where now shall the throne of our kingdom find hope, Or childhood have pleasure, or age seek its prop! Oh, model of Virtue! we weep for thy doom, While thou, noble princess, art cold in the tomb! But now thy bright spirit those mansions hath found, Where pleasures unfading for ever abound. WHAT HAS BEEN. A Dirge. Written at the approach of Winter. ANONYMOUS. NOVEMBER'S chill and cheerless power The blast sighs mournful through the trees |