As from yon dull and stagnant lake The streams begin to live and take Their course thro' Clara's wooded vale, Kiss'd by the health-inspiring gale, Heedless of wealth their banks may hold, They glide, neglectful of the gold, Yet seem to hope a Shakespeare's name To give our Avon deathless fame, So, from the savage barren heart, The streams of Science and of Art May spread their soft refreshing green, To vivify the moral scene. O, vanish'd Hope!-O, transient boast! O, COUNTRY gain'd but to be lost! Gain'd by a nation, rais'd, inspir'd, By Eloquence and Virtue fir'd, By transatlantic glory stung, By Grattan's energetic tongue, By Parliament that felt its trust, By Britain terrify'd and just. Lost-by thy chosen children sold: And conquer'd-not by steel but gold: Lost in a bargain, base, absurd, Dupe to a Courtier's pledge-his word. Its purpose serv'd, then nothing loath, The word is broken by the oath. The Courtier skulks behind the throne, And sold our honour, saves his own. Lost-by a low and servile great, Who smile upon their Country's fate, Crouching to gain the public choice, And sell it by their venal voice. Lost-to the world and future fame, Remember'd only in a name, Once in the Courts of Europe known To Science lost, and letter'd Truth, EXTEMPORE On a Key, appended to the Bosom of a very beautiful young Lady. How blest is thy lot, thou insensible Key, To guard o'er the gateway-that leads into Heav'n! VERSES. BY THE REV. DR. LAYARD, LATE DEAN OF BRISTOL ; On the Duke and Duchess of ANCASTEE, LET senseless libertines complain His rule unjustly is abus'd, I know a pair, whose souls combin'd To them, that tiresome stupid life, "Tis theirs the truest joy to know, The noblest passions blend :Cannot those scenes of bliss invite, Those scenes of transport, where unite The Lover and the Friend? Compare you such a state as this, VERSES, Translated from the Greek of Ibycus Rheginus. BY WILLIAM PRESTON, ESQ. NAIADS Soft, Cydonian maids, Kind of heart, in feature bright: These are they that fire my heart: Wakeful Love within my breast, D From each object of desire, TO FRANCES. TOUCH'D with thy woes, beloved Friend! It cannot love thee less, sweet Frances! Admired while grac'd with health and bloom, How can I e'er forget thee, Frances? From virtue though thy steps should stray, If honour, candour thee betray, I never will forsake thee, Frances! AMICUS. |