Bright the gay-twinkling fires above; To match one grace, with idle pain, '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, But 'tis the eye that swims in tears, The note that falters on the tongue, The hand alternate fiery warm These, these the magic circle twine, The lover's thoughts and feelings seize'; Till scarce a son of earth he seems, SWEET-blended with the smiles of Hope, The soft delicious languor seems But ah! though bright the sky to-day, And never think, ill-fated youth! Each freshning hue shall memory lend, Till life's last sun is set! Attempt not from thine anxious thoughts OH! dear were the joys that are past! How dear was the breath of the eve, Thou vow'dst in my arms to be mine, Thou hast broken thy plighted faith; 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- 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. Η '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! Ah, yes! towards the glorious sun he gaz'd Ah! fatal morn-forget it shall I never. |