TO ADELINE.

On receiving from her the foregoing Elegy, on the Decease of a beloved Daughter.

АH! little thought the subject of thy song,
Sublime, yet plaintive, and though tender, strong;
When the sweet warblings of thy fairy lay *,
The pain of sickly languor charm'd away;
That to herself so soon it should be given,
To join the holy "minstrelsy of Heaven."
Thy friendly Muse should chaunt the funeral verse,
And scatter flow'rets o'er her virgin hearse.
Her Spirit thanks thee-for methinks I hear
Angelic sounds thus vibrate on mine ear.—
"Blest be the maid, who to a sister's urn,

"For incense brings the vivid "words that burn ;" "What though her heart, by sympathetic glow,

May feel a pang the selfish never know;

"Yet e'en from Sorrow can her polish'd mind, "A pensive pleasure draw by love refin'd; "And when delightful themes her thoughts employ, "Pure is the transport, exquisite the joy. "O henceforth may she muse on such alone, "Partake of other's bliss, and double all her own."

G. H. D.

* To Oberon, &c.-which had been perused with great delight, especially these two lines;

"To hear the minstrelsy of heaven

"Float on the breezes of the even."

It will be seen that this expression here borrowed, refers to much higher order of beings.

THE GAMEKEEPER'S RETURN

AT NIGHT.

BY S. E. BRYDGES, ESQ.

WRITTEN 1802.

1.

THRO' the long morning have I toil'd
O'er heath and lonely wood,
And cross the dark untrodden glen
The fearful game pursu’d:

But deeper now the gathering clouds
Collect along the sky,

And faint and weary warn my steps
Their homeward course to hie.

2.

And now the driving mist withdraws veil :

Her grey and vapoury

I mark again the sacred tower
I pass'd in yonder dale.
A little while, and I shall gain
Yon hill's laborious height;
And then perhaps my humble cot
Will chear my grateful sight.

3.

Ah now I see the smoke ascend
From forth the glimmering thatch;

Now my heart beats at every step,
And now I lift the latch;

Now starting from my blazing hearth
My little children bound,

And loud with shrill and clamorous joy

Their happy sire surround.

4.

How sweet when Night first wraps the world
Beneath her sable vest,

To sit beside the crackling fire

With weary limbs at rest;

And think on all the labours past,

That Morn's bright hours employ'd,
While all, that toil and danger seem'd,
Is now at home enjoy'd.

5.

The wild and fearful distant scene,
Lone covert, whistling storm,

Seem now in Memory's mellowing eye

To wear a softer form;

And while my wand'rings I describe,
As froths the nut-brown ale,
My dame and little list'ning tribe
With wonder hear the tale.

6.

Then soft enchanting slumbers calm,
My heavy eyelids close,

And on my humble bed I sink

To most profound repose;

Save, that by fits, the scenes of day,
Come glancing on my sight,

And, touch'd by Fancy's magic wand,
Seem visions of delight.

MARCH, 1802.

ODE TO THE VENUS URANIA.

To heights where Fancy ne'er aspir'd,
In what blest region of the sky,
Eludes the Queen of Love retir'd,
The Sophist's art, the Poet's eye.

Not she for whom Cythera's bowers,
Or Aphac's violated steep,
Or proud Assyria's guilty towers,
Licentious revels wont to keep.

Thee rather modest Nymph! I greet,
The sage Athenian's chaster theme,
While echoed to his accents sweet,
The oliv'd roofs of Academe.

Still Goddess thy permitted view
Charms more than mortal can reveal,
Instruct each sense, to nature true,
The eye to judge, the heart to feel.

Within us dwell those forms divine,

Which thy sole image can impart; We rear to thee no marble shrine, Whose living temple is-the heart!

ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE, OXON.

T. P.

INSCRIPTION

ON A MURAL TABLET,

IN THE

Chapel of Holyrood-housé, Edinburgh.

SACRED

to the Memory of

HENRIETTA ELIZABETH HAY,

DAUGHTER OF THE

REVEREND GEORGE HAY DRUMMOND,

SON OF

ROBERT, ARCHBISHOP OF YORK; Who departed this Life, November 28, 1802, in the Sixteenth Year of her Age.

Too pure and perfect still to linger here,
Cheer'd with seraphic visions of the blest,
Smiling she dried a tender father's tear,

And pour'd her spirit forth upon his breast.

He bends not o'er the mansion of the dead,
Where loveliness and grace in ruins lie;
In sure and certain hope he lifts his head,
And Faith presents her in her native sky.

G. H. D.