"O! golden pledge of early love!

"Thou promise of connubial bliss! Upbraid me not!" she cried-“ nor prove "How ill this soul sustains distress.

"Whene'er thy glittering form I view,

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My heart reproaches me, and cries"Could'st thou forget a spouse so true, "Who first conferr'd this hallow'd prize?

"And ere soft April's dewy hand

"Had twice bestrew'd with flow'rs his grave, "Submit thee to Seduction bland

"The dupe of Vice, and Passion's slave!

"Accurst by Heav'n, and Woman-kind,
"For ever be that Traitor vile,
"Who turn'd from innocence my mind,
"And dared my easy faith beguile!

"O! golden pledge of happier times!
"Thou promise sweet of wedded bliss-
"No more reproach me with my crimes,
"Nor aggravate my soul's distress!

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"Now dear, belov'd, dishonour'd pledge!
I lay thee, thus, on this rude stone,
"That gazers o'er this fearful ridge,

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Might learn, from thee, that I am gone!

"Here witness thou how MARY fell,

"To expiate her foul disgrace;

"And soon to her Betrayer tell

"The tale that Time shall ne'er efface!"

She clasp'd her hands-she rais'd her eyes,
In bitterest anguish of despair;

Wild was the ocean- -dark the skies!.

No hope remain'd-no help was near!

Down-down she plung'd-The dashing wave
Receiv'd her on its murmuring breast;
And, rolling back, the gulfy grave
Compos'd her struggling heart to rest!

TO A FRIEND.

HER image, who enslaves my mind,
Urge me no longer to discover;
Fain would I sing, but ah! I find,

The Bard can ill express the Lover.

Yet trust me he whose happier skill,

For terms could ransack earth, air, ocean; Might shew, perhaps, more wit at will, But less of genuine emotion.

Though Art the florid phrase deny,

Yet Truth can never want expression,
For that best language of the eye,
Is still in her's, and Love's possession.

T. P.

ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE, OXON.

STANZAS,

ON THE

DEATH OF MISS H. E. HAY

BY ADELINE.

HAIL, awful dwelling of the silent dead!
Where the wild weeds of desolation wave +:
Here the meek sufferer rests her drooping head,
On the cold pillow of the peaceful grave.

To Him that haunts this proud sepulchral dome,
Yon wandering planet of the midnight skies,
Seems Love's pure torch to guide the pilgrim home,
Where the lov'd treasure of his bosom lies.

* Daughter of the Rev. George Hay Drummond.

+ The Chapel of Holyrood-house, now a pile of ruins,

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O'er yon cold sod to Love and Nature dear,
That shrouds the beauteous tenant of the grave,
Shall pale Remembrance shed the bitter tear,
And from the dust the form of beauty save.

Oh! powers of Memory! it is your's alone,
While beams of Paradise the grave illume,
To bid the heart a transient rapture own,
And call bright visions from nocturnal gloom.

In vivid tints like Heaven's etherial bow,
Is sainted Virtue imag'd in the breast,

While Death's dim clouds in Faith's refulgent glow,
Float like the shadows from the dawning east.

Yet shrinking Nature, o'er yon sacred urn,
Shall muse on scenes of bliss for ever gone;
And o'er the ashes of the dead shall mourn,
While deep and low congenial tempests moan.

When hopeless woe corrodes the aching breast,
More dear the wailings of the wintry storm,
When sinks the dim moon in the darken'd west,
Then vernal bowers in summer colouring warm.

Oh! hear ye winds that sweep the vaulted sky,
O'er yon grey towers, oh pour your cadence wild;
And bid the blast like dying Evening sigh,

For there a Father guards his slumb'ring child.

What tho' the storms that chill the changing year, Wave their dark pinions o'er the humid mound; Yet silver dew, pure as an angel's tear,

Shall gem the wild weeds as they spring around.

No blushing bands yon mould'ring arch entwine, Where the lone night-bird wakes his cries of woe; But there the wreaths of new fall'n snow shall shine, Pure as the innocence that sleeps below.

Stranger approach, if e'er thy bosom knew
The sacred influence of an angel's smile;
When thy lov'd hand wip'd the heart-chilling dew
From the sweet face that cheer'd consuming toil.

Approach, for thou art hallowed by woe,

Oh come, and gaze upon yon holy tomb;
While pensive Memory's vivid visions glow,
And her pale fires the shades of Death illume.

O'er the green turf that wraps the blissed clay,
Shall the light wing of youthful Fancy wave,

And chaunt at eve, beneath the lunar ray,

The dirge of Sorrow o'er Eliza's grave,

EDINBURGH, DEC. 4, 1802.