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Around its more than adamantine base
The Sceptic wave in harmless eddies plays;
To shake the deep foundation oft it tries,
And oft, with threat'ning aspect, seems to rise,
Then bursts in foam-evaporates—and dies.
BELFAST, 1797.

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THE FATAL MOMENT.

Ir was but a moment! 'twas but like a dream!
Of her musical voice I but just heard the sound;
And but just of her dark tender eyes met the beam,
As they smilingly rov'd o'er the landscape around.

Yet, though brief was the moment, 'twas fatal to me,
For that moment the peace of my bosom destroy'd;
Now in feverish slumbers her image I see,

And waking my soul feels a sorrowful void.

Thus, when Summer the pride of her beauty displays, From the gathering clouds dart their arrowy fires, And the victim scarce views the sulphureous blaze, Scarcely breathes out a sigh, ere he falls and expires!

IGNOTO.

THE WATER LILY.

TO STELLA.

BY MR. J. THELWALL*.

As o'er the western moor I stray'd,
A beauteous flow'ret caught my view,
Whose half-unfolded leaves display'd
The virgin snow's unsullied hue.

The fountain of a nameless stream
Its stem with purest nurture fed;
And, cool beneath the noontide beam,
It slumber'd on its chrystal bed.

I stoop'd to gaze; when, on the breeze
That o'er the dimpling fountain play'd,
Such fragrance rush'd the sense to seize
As never breath'd in vernal glade.

If simple beauty charm'd my sight,
The breathing soul enraptur'd more;
And, panting with a fond delight,
The Lily from its stem I bore.

The pieces inserted in the original poetry of the last volume, pages 44, 57, and 85, under the titles of" Absence," "The Tear," and "The Stranger," are by the same author.

And, as I placed it in my breast,
What added charms the prize reveal'd,
Disclosing what the modest vest
From passing eyes had kept conceal'd.

The snow without within was gold;
Pure living gold of warmest ray;
Like Innocence in Beauty's mold,
Or deeds of worth that shun the day.

Just such a flower, in early youth,
I found, and plac'd my bosom near;
Just such a flower, in early youth;
Stella, perhaps, can tell me where.

WESTMORLAND, JUNE 1804.

ADDRESS TO GOOD SENSE.

To Fancy let the Poet raise
His bold enthusiastic lays;
To Memory grateful tribute pour
For all her rich collected store.

To thee Good Sense I lowly bow;
To thee I pay my sober vow;
Flattery in vain the bribe supplies,
"Tis thine her incense to despise.

Simple thine air, thine eye serene,
Thy charms more valued, as more seen.
Proportion o'er thy form presides,
Utility thy motion guides.

Without thy genuine stamp imprest,
Vainly is mental wealth possest;
In vain Imagination warms,
Creating gay or solemn forms.

In vain is Memory's crowded store,
And vain the scholar's antient lore;
Without thy ballast in the mind,
The veffel veers with every wind.

Even Virtue swerves without thy aid,
By sudden gusts of passion sway'd;
And Genius, an unrooted flower,
Blossoms and withers in an hour.

O thou to whom I lowly bend,
Do thou thy votary's prayer attend;
Do thou her steady pilot be,
To guide her thro' life's shoaly sea.

Should she, in Fancy's air-balloon,
Mount to steal radiance from the moon;
Then sudden sink with curious eye
To search where Fancy's glow-worms lie;

Now like the Aeronaut* explore,
And count the waving ridges o'er;
Then sudden up the welkin rush,
Till forests seem a gooseberry bush;

Do thou her giddy flight restrain,
And call her back to earth again;
Let her thy temperate medium know,
Nor rise too high, nor sink too low.

* Capt. Sowden. See his account.

E. C. K.

SONG.

BY ROBERT ANDERSON.

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on some burning desart plac'd,

And there for ever doom'd to dwell;

Or Lapland's wide wild wintry waste,
Where Day ne'er beam'd within my cell,
Nor Friendship's joys could chear me;

Or if by Poverty held down,

Till all but one should me disown,
I'd smile beneath Misfortune's frown,
If still that one were near me,

But were my path bestrewn with flow'rs,
That blushing, breath'd their various sweets,
Where Pleasure leads the rosy hours,
And ev'ry breast with rapture beats;
Ev'n this would fail to chear me :
No splendor could attract my sight;
No courtly joys my soul delight;
For life would seem an endless night,
If Anna were not near me.

CARLISLE,

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