Bright the gay-twinkling fires above;
Brighter the eyes of Her I love!

To match one grace, with idle pain,
Through Nature's stores I search in vain,
All that is bright, and soft, and sweet,
Does in her form, concenter'd, meet;
Then, Muse! how weak thy pow'r must prove
To paint the charms of Her I love!

'Tis past! the tuneless lethargy is o'er!

I fly from Dulness, and her mole-ey'd throng; To Fancy, and to Love, I wake once more,

Once more I wake to Rapture, and to Song; Whence spring these transports of tumultuous bliss? These sweet sensations whence, to Feeling true?— They breathe, ambrosial, from my MARY'S kiss; They stream from her soft eyes of humid blue. Dear Maid! how oft, immers'd in cheerless woe, Close have I clasp'd thy visionary form ; How oft has that ripe cheek's purpureal glow, With radiant blushes, streak'd the mental storm? Though distant many a long, long, weary mile, 'Mid my lone path that angel-shape I view'd ; View'd, in the first faint Dawn, thy serious smile; In Eve's pale van, thy fleeting frame pursu❜d. Has Summer aught more tempting than thy breast, When Nature revels, unconfin'd, and free? In Autumn's richest charms art thou not drest? Winter, and tearful Spring, remain for me! Yet, spite of Fortune, in cold Caution's spite, (To Caution's minions, fortune I resign,) While envious stars withdraw their curtain'd light, Pulse of my throbbing heart! thou shalt be mine!

FINLAY.

1802.

Author of a fine poem, in the stanza of Spenser, entitled "Wallace, or the Vale of Ellerslie ;" to which are added some miscellaneous effusions. Mr. Finlay has in this publication given considerable promise of his future eminence. He is a native of Scotland.

'Tis not the rose upon the cheek,
Nor eyes in languor soft that roll,
That fix the lover's timid glance,
And fire his wilder'd soul.

But 'tis the eye that swims in tears,
Diffusing soft a joy all holy,
So soothing to the heart of love,
And yet so melancholy !

The note that falters on the tongue,
Sweet as the dying voice of eve,
That calms the throbbing breast of pain,
Yet makes it love to grieve!

The hand alternate fiery warm
And icy cold, the bursting sigh,
The look that hopes, yet seems to fear,
Pale cheek and burning eye:

These, these the magic circle twine,

The lover's thoughts and feelings seize;

Till scarce a son of earth he seems,
But lives in what he sees.

SWEET-blended with the smiles of Hope,
Love's first infection glows,

The soft delicious languor seems
An earnest of repose!

But ah! though bright the sky to-day,
The storm may low'r to-morrow;
Love's pleasing sadness turns to pain,
Then deepens into sorrow.

And never think, ill-fated youth!
Thy passion to forget,

Each freshning hue shall memory lend,

Till life's last sun is set !

Attempt not from thine anxious thoughts
Her image to dissever,
The firm impression firmer grows
By every fond endeavour!

OH! dear were the joys that are past!
Oh dear were the joys that are past!
Inconstant thou art as the dew of the morn,
Or a cloud of the night on the blast!

How dear was the breath of the eve,
When hearing thy fond faithless sigh!
And the moon-beam how dear that betray'd
The love that illumin'd thine eye!

Thou vow'dst in my arms to be mine,
Thou swear'st by the moon's sacred light—
But dark roll'd a cloud o'er the sky,
It hid the pale queen of the night.

Thou hast broken thy plighted faith;
And broken a fond Lover's heart!

Yes! in winter the moon's fleeting ray I would trust more than thee and thy art!

I am wretched to think on the past-
Ev'n hope now my peace cannot save:
Thou hast giv'n to my rival thy hand,
But me thou hast doom'd to my grave.

VOL. II.

CHARLOTTE DACRE.

1803.

Of Mrs. Dacre little is known, except that she was a contributor to the verse-department of the "Morning Herald," under the signature of ROSA MATILDA. To the suggestions of Dr. Wolcott, however, is attributed the publication of this lady's " Hours of Solitude." She certainly has displayed no inconsiderable degree of poetical genius, and some claim to the character of originality.

'OH! lovely youth, why seem thy cheeks so pale?
Oh! lovely youth, why are thine eyes so hollow?
Oh! live-for, rather than thy loss bewail,
To the cold grave thy lifeless corpse I'll follow!'

So spake I to the idol of my love,

While in my heart I felt a deadly sorrow; As with slow steps he languidly did move,

I thought with trembling doubt upon the morrow.

The morrow came, and yet my lover liv'd!
Against a tree, I saw his form reclining ;
To Heaven, with such a look my heart as riv'd,
He cast his eyes with pious sweetness shining.

Ah, yes! towards the glorious sun he gaz'd
With languid smile, that said adieu for ever!
And patiently, his wasted hands he rais'd.—
Ah! fatal morn-forget it shall I never.