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STANZAS.

Little Gipsey declare,

Said the sweet smiling Fair;
If he dar'd of my frowns to complain?

No, not even in thought

Did he dare to find fault,
He adores the lov'd cause of his pain.

His passion's so pure,

That he could not endure
Fond hopes, if he thought they'd displease;

To his heart so sincere,

Your bliss is more dear
Than his own by a thousand degrees.

At the foot of the hill,

Where the willows distil Crystal dew-drops, he seeks the night's gloom;

Ere a twelvemonth goes round,

A few friends shall be found, Shedding Sympathy's tears at his tomb.

Little Gipsey away,

Said the Lady so gay,
Nor pity'd her true Lovers doom—

The twelvemonth's gone round,

He lies in the cold ground,
And the willows wave over his tomb,

) ELEGIAC ODE.

When the stroke of the Woodman had ceas'd in the vale,

And the sweet Philomela had finish'd her song; A sage Child of Sorrow repeated his tale,

And sigh'd to the stream as it murmur'd along.

"I have seen the glad prospect which led me astray, Change its lustre, and fade like the tints of the morn;

I have seen the meridian splendor of day, But night has succeeded, and found me forlorn.

"I have seen, as I pass'd, how the rose blushing gay, To the gale of the morning its bosom display'd;

I return'd,—but its beauties had faded away,

And the pride of the morn ere the ev'ning was dead.

"I have seen (oh how lovely!) the maid of the dale, Flush'd with health, and with beauty triumphantly tread;

But, alas! neither beauty nor health could avail,
For all that was lovely, with Laura is dead.

"How delusive is Hope !—oh, how transient the stay Of the sun-beam that gilds our terrestrial scene!

How short is the pleasure of man's brightest day, And the blasts of Misfortune how piercingly keen!

"How blank is the prospect, how gloomy the day, Which is clouded with care, and o'ershadow'd with woe;

How dreary, unsocial, and cheerless the way, Which the Children of Sorrow must wander below!

"Oh! when shall the Pilgrim arrive at his home, And man to his parent in gladness return;

Oh! when shall our sorrows be lost in the tomb, And the wretched forget with the wretched to mourn."

Thus nightly he sang, and the swains lov'd to hear, For his accents were gentle and mild as the dew;

Till they dropp'd o'er his tale of misfortune a tear, And shrunk from the world, and the picture he drew.

P. H. F.

THE POET'S PETITION.

Ye Fates! these mortal realms who sway, Still make the Bard your care;Reserve him still the light of day, And free respiring air!

For ill the Poet's soul could brook

Confinement's putrid breath,
The labouring lungs, the ghastly look,

And slow-consuming death.

But if he must to prison go,

And be anon shut in;
O! let a month of prison woe

Atone for years of sin!

AMICUS.

SONG.

Think no more, my gentle Maid!

To withhold the promis'd treasure; Can thy tongue delay persuade,

While thine eyes persuade to pleasure r Long, too long, thine arts have strove

'Gainst my love to arm my reason; Pleading youth in bar of love

Is in Cupid's court a treason.

While from day to day I spy

Some new charm its sweets disclosing, Thought presents to Fancy's eye

What from day to day I'm losing. Shall the budded rose expand

On the air its beauties wasting, Cropt by no desiring hand,

None its early fragrance tasting!

Gentle Maid! resign thy fears;

Or, if fears thou must be feeling, Dread the silent theft of years,

Youth, and Joy, and Beauty stealing. Shield thee, shield thee, in my arms,

From the fiend all bliss destroying; Make me guardian of thy charms;

I'll secure them—by enjoying.

KYMBER*.

TO

SIR ARMINE WODEHOUSE, Bart,

BY THE LATE REv. R. POTTER.

Dii patrii, quorum semper sub Numine Troja est,
Non tamen ommno Teucros delerc paratis.
Cum tales Amnios Juvenum, et tarn certa tulisti*
Pectora.

Yet once more, ye lov'd poplars, and once more
My silver Yare, your hallow'd haunts I tread,
The bough-inwoven bank, the damaskt mead,
And seek the sweet shade of the woodbine bow'r,
If haply here the British muse abide:
For not on Isis' academic side,
Nor where proud Thamis rolls his royal waves
Thro' forest brown, or sunny meadow fair,
Her rapture-breathing voice enchants the ear:
Nor in those fields that honour'd Camus laves;
He, rev'rend Sire, the sacred groves beneath
Oft' deck'd with laureat wreath,
Thro' the still valleys winds his pensive way
Without the sweet note of one warbled song;
Save ever and anon some plaintive lay
Pours its soft airs, the rustic tombs among,

• First printed in the year 1759.

A

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