Ye battlements! that look to heav'n, And holy inen have led the sacred mass, Where the rank hemlock waves, o'er the thick-tufted grass. Be mine, when evening's lively hues Paint thy long aisles with glowing red, Have twice twelve powerful monarchs sway'd Yet thou must sink at last, destroy'd by years, And the plow tear the soil which thy proud structures bears. BANKS OF THE KEN. W. G. *The Abbey of Dundrennan, in the stewarty of Galloway, was founded by Fergus the first Lord of Galloway, who flourished in the end of the reign of Malcolm Kenmore, and lived till near the end of Malcolm IV. who died in the year 1165. Fergus founded the monastery of Dundrennan in 1142. Some chiefs are entombed in this antient structure, who fought under the banners of the cross in Palestine, during some of the crusades. It was here also that Queen Mary slept the night before she set sail for Mary-port, in Cumberland, after the unfortunate battle of Langside. This abbey is one of the most picturesque and venerable ruins in the south of Scotland. THE THUNDER STORM. O FOR Evening's brownest shade! Round the hermitage of Health; While the noon-bright mountains blaze In the sun's tormenting rays. O'er the sick and sultry plains, And the wanness of Despair: —Ah! her pulse hath ceased to beat! Now in deep and dreadful gloom, Clouds on clouds portentous spread, Black, as if the day of doom Hung o'er Nature's shrinking head; Lo! the lightning breaks from high, -God is coming!-God is nigh! Hear ye not his chariot wheels, As the mighty thunder rolls? Nature, startled Nature reels, From the centre to the poles; Tremble!-Ocean, Earth and Sky! Tremble!-God is passing by! Darkness, wild with horror, forms Brighter, broader lightnings flash, God of vengeance! from above, Spare!-O spare a guilty world! -See thy bow of promise smile! Welcome, in the eastern cloud, See thy Parent reconciled! Hark! the nightingale, afar, Cool and tranquil is the night, A WISH. ALCEUS, BY DR. HAWKESWORTH. THROUGH groves sequester'd, dark, and still, Awhile it plays with circling sweep, And lingering winds its native plain, Then pours impetuous down the steep, And mingles with the boundless main. O! let my years thus devious glide, Through silent scenes obscurely calm; Nor Wealth nor Strife pollute the tide, Nor Honour's sanguinary palm. When Labour tires, and Pleasure palls, Still let the stream untroubled lie: ADDRESS To the Subscribers and Friends to the Literary Fund, at their Anniversary Dinner, April 1, 1802. BY WILLIAM BOSCAWEN, ESQ. IN hardy Chivalry's advent'rous days, Again in thought, he grasp'd bright Valour's meed, Less proud our boast-though still Britannia's name, There Bounty sits enthroned; while Mirth, enshrined |