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Nor this pellucid rill refrain
To sip, ye minstrels of the air ! Your downy plumage to distain
With blood, no fatal tube I bear, Nor pay with death your artless strain. That breast no savage sports can share
Where glow Affection’s generous fires ; Soft Pity finds her mansion there,
All whom the breath of life inspires By her own sorrow taught to spare. Mine, gentle Naiad, be the dell
Whose clear stream laves thy crystal grot: Near its green margin let me dwell,
By all but one dear maid forgot, And bid a world of cares farewell,
Oft let me view thy trembling tide,
Checquer'd with Cynthia's silver light;
Before my fascinated sight,
Hopeless of happier hours to come,
No more array'd in flattering hues, For me the buds of Pleasure bloom :
Yet deigns, at Fancy's call, the Muse To gild Affliction's deepening gloom.
. With Lesbia's praise the strain shall glow;
Oh, may she taste each bliss supreme That Hope can paint or Love bestow;
And calm as Glym's sequester'd stream May her life's gentle current flow !
Wind, lovely brook, thy murmuring way,
Still with my sorrows sympathize :
Thy waves in rich redundance rise,
My sighs shall fan thy flowery beds;
The tears desponding Passion sheds Shall its exhausted stream supply.
REV. G. HUDDISFORD.
TO THE RIVER DERWENT,
WRITTEN IN A ROMANTIC VALLEY NEAR ITS SOURCE.
DERWENT, what scenes thy wandering waves behold,
(stray, As bursting from thine hundred springs they And down these vales, in sounding torrents roll’d,
Seek to the shining east their mazy way! Here dusky alders, leaning from the cliff, Dip their long arms and wave their branches
wide; There, as the loose rocks thwart my bounding skiff,
White moonbeams tremble on the foaming tide. Pass on, ye waves, where, dress'd in lavish pride, Mid roseate bowers, the gorgeous Chatsworth
beams, Spreads her smooth lawns along your willowy side,
And eyes her gilded turrets in your streams.
Pass on, ye waves, where Nature's rudest child,
Frowning incumbent o'er the darken’d floods, Rock rear'd on rock, mountain on mountain piled,
Old Matlock sits and shakes his crest of woods. But when fair Derby's stately towers you view, When his bright meads your sparkling currents
drink, O! should Eliza press the morning dew,
And bend her graceful footsteps to your brink, Uncurl your eddies, all your gales confine,
And, as your scaly nations gaze around, Bid your gay nymphs portray, with pencil fine,
Her radiant form upon your silver ground. With playful malice from her kindling cheek Steal the warm blush, and tinge your passing
stream; Mock the sweet transient dimples as she speaks,
And as she turns her eye reflect the beam! And tell her, Derwent, as you murmur by,
How in these wilds with hopeless love I burn, Teach your lone vales and echoing caves to sigh,
And mix my briny sorrows with your urn.
TO THE VENUS URANIA,
To heights where Fancy ne'er aspired,
In what blest region of the sky, Eludes the Queen of Love, retired,
The sophist's art, the poet's eye?
Not she for whom Cythera's bowers,
Or Apach's violated steep,
Licentious revels wont to keep.
The sage Athenian's chaster theme, While echoed to his accents sweet
The olived roofs of Academe. Still, goddess, thy permitted view
Charms more than mortal can reveal, Instruct each sense to nature true,
The eye to judge, the heart to feel. Within us dwell those forms divine
Which thy sole image can impart; We rear to thee no marble shrine Whose living temple is—the heart!
REV. T. PERCY..
LOVE AND AGE.
Anacreon, grown morose and old,
Sudden the cottage door expands,
And, lo! before him Cupid stands, [his name. Casts round a friendly glance, and greets him by
What! is it thou?' the startled sire In sullen tone exclaimed, while ire With crimson flush'd his pale and wrinkled cheek:
6 Wouldst thou again with amorous rage
Inflame my bosom? Steeled by age, [too weak. Vain boy, to pierce my breast thine arrows are
" What seek you in this desert drear?
No smiles or sports inhabit here; Ne'er did these valleys witness dalliance sweet:
Eternal winter binds the plains;
Age in my house despotic reigns; [heat. My garden boasts no flower, my bosom boasts no
Begone, and seek the blooming bower, Where some ripe virgin courts thy power, Or bid provoking dreams flit round her bed;
On Damon's amorous breast repose,
Wanton on Chloe's lip of rose, Or make her blushing cheek a pillow for thy head.
• Be such thy haunts! These regions cold
Avoid! Nor think, grown wise and old, This hoary head again thy yoke shall bear:
Remembering that my fairest years
By thee were mark'd with sighs and tears, I think thy friendship false, and shun the guile
ful snare. 'I have not yet forgot the pains
I felt, while bound in Julia's chains : The ardent flames with which my bosom burn'd;
The nights I passed deprived of rest;
The jealous pangs which rack'd my breast; My disappointed hopes and passion unreturn'd.
Then fly, and curse mine eyes no more!
I know thy falsehood, scorn thy arts,
Distrust thy smiles, and fear thy darts : Traitor, begone, and seek some other to betray!'