Without, no baneful blast invade, Then may some happier hand than mine, And wear thee nearest to his heart. An old Magazine. AIR. DRY those tears! like melted ore, Fast dropping on my heart they fall: Think, think no more of me; no more The mem'ry of past scenes recall. On a wild sea of passion tost, Lionel and Clarissa. SONG TO THE NIGHTINGALE. OH cease thy song, sweet Philomel! Ah no! sweet bird! thy strains prolong, Sweet melody the mind inspires, Sweet Philomel! prolong thy strain, And hither charin my absent swain, By love to bless and to be blest. Monthly Review. BALLAD. DARK was the night, the children slept, Poor Mary clim'd the cottage stair, And at her chamber window wept, ⚫ And plac'd a little taper there. "Why does he tarry thus?" she cried, "Alas! what pains dó I endure ! › Heavens grant this taper be his guide, And lead him safe across the moor." At length his well known voice she hears; William all pale and bloody stood; Sigh'd out "alas no more we meet! I'm stabb'd by robbers in the wood." Then fell a corse at Mary's feet. Coleman. LINES FOUND IN A BOWER FACING THE SOUTH. SOFT cherub of the southern breeze, Oh! thou, whose fond embrace to meet, Thou, at whose call the light fays start, Lie penciling with tend'rest art, The blossom thin and infant flow'r! Soft cherub of the southern breeze, And if aright, with anxious zeal, My willing hands this bow'r have made, Still let this bow'r thine influence feel, And be its gloom thy fav'rite shade ! For thee, of all the cherub train, Alone my votive muse would woo, Of all that skim along the main, Or walk at dawn yon mountains blue ; Of all that slumber'd in the grove, Or playful urge the gossamer's flight, Or down the vale or streamlet move, With whisper soft and pinion light. I court thee, thro' the glinim'ring air; I court thee, when at noon reclin'd, Or silent climb the leaf along. I court thee, when the flow'rets close, And, when beneath the moon's pale beam, And waking visions round me gleam |