TO MISS AURELIA C--R,

ON HER WEEPING AT HER SISTER'S WEDDING.

Cease, fair Aurelia, cease to mourn,

Lament not Hannah's happy state ; You may be happy in your turn,

And seize the treasure you regret.

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With Love united Hymen stands,

And softly whispers to your charms, “ Meet but your lover in my bands,

You'll find your sister in his arms.”

SONNET.

When Phæbe form'd a wanton smile,

My soul ! it reach'd not here :
Strange, that thy peace, thou trembler, fies

Before a rising tear!
From ’midst the drops, my love is born,

That o'er those eyelids rove :
Thus issued from a teeming wave

The fabled queen of love.

5

Young Damon of the vale is dead,

Ye lowly hamlets, moan;
A dewy turf lies o'er his head,

And at his feet a- stone.

His shroud, which Death's cold damps destroy, 5

Of snow white threads was made : All mourn’d to see so sweet a boy

In earth for ever laid.

Pale pansies o'er his corpse were placed,

Which, pluck'd before their time, Bestrew'd the boy, like him to waste

And wither in their prime.

But will he ne'er return, whose tongue

Could tune the rural lay? Ah, no! his bell of

is

rung, His lips are cold as clay.

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They bore him out at twilight hour,

The youth who loved so well:
Ah, me! how many a true love shower

Of kind remembrance fell!

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Each maid was wod—but Lucy chief,

Her grief o'er all was tried ;
Within his grave she dropp'd in grief,

And o'er her loved one died.

ON OUR LATE TASTE IN MUSIC.

Quid vocis modulamen inane juvabat
Verborum sensusque vacans numerique loquacis ?

MILTON,

BRITONS ! away with the degenerate pack !
Waft, western winds! the foreign spoilers back!
Enough has been in wild amusements spent,
Let British verse and harmony content !
No music once could charm

you
like

your own, Then tuneful Robinson, and Tofts were known; Then Purcell touch'd the strings, while numbers

hung
Attentive to the sounds—and blest the song!
E'en gentle Weldon taught us manly notes,
Beyond the enervate thrills of Roman throats !
Notes, foreign luxury could ne'er inspire,
That animate the soul, and swell the lyre !
That mend, and not emasculate our hearts,
And teach the love of freedom and of arts.

1+

a Now Countess-dowager of Peterborough.

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b

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Nor yet, while guardian Phæbus gilds our isle, Does heaven averse await the muses' toil; Cherish but once our worth of native race, The sister-arts shall soon display their face! Even half discouraged through the gloom they

strive, Smile at neglect, and o’er oblivion live. See Handel, careless of a foreign fame, Fix on our shore, and boast a Briton's name : While, placed marmoric in the vocal grove, He guides the measures listening throngs approve. Mark silence at the voice of Arne confess'd, Soft as the sweet enchantress rules the breast; As when transported Venice lent an ear, Camilla's charms to view, and accents hear!" So while she varies the impassion'd song, Alternate motions on the bosom throng! As heavenly Miltond guides her magic voice, And virtue thus convey'd allures the choice.

Discard soft nonsense in a slavish tongue, The strain insipid, and the thought unknown; From truth and nature form the unerring test ; 35 Be what is manly, chaste, and good the best! 'Tis not to ape the songsters of the groves, Through all the quiverings of their wanton loves. 'Tis not the enfeebled thrill, or warbled shake, The heart can strengthen, or the soul awake! 40

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