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POETICAL ESSAYS.

THE PEST.

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The guards of chastity asleep are laid, And quick to ruin sinks the yielding maid!

But short thy joys, illicit love!
And swift thy few bless'd moments

move:

Scarcely arriv'd ere they decay,
Instant thy raptures pass away.
For what is sordid selfish lust?
A fickle, feeble, feverish gust,
Follow'd by loathing and disgust;
Follow'd by terrors that the soul appall
A drop of honey in a sea of gall.

Thus have I mark'd in Summer scene
The landscape smiling and serene;
Thus have I view'd the peaceful lake,
When winds no more the waters
wake;

But, lo! the sweeping tempests rise,
Like reeds the crackling forest flies;

The
angry storm in thander roars,
And sounding billows lash the shores
Their fate in vain the seamen fly,
Madden'd, they shrick, they sink, and

die!

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The mist of passion once remov'd, How strangely alter'd him she lov'd! How cold, how callous is he grown! She looks, and stiffens into stone. The fiend her misery makes his jest, And all the devil stands confess'd!

Where now the joys the soul that

move?

Where are now the looks of love?
Where the anxious wish to bless?
Where, alas! is happiness?
Gone for ever! fled like air!
Follow'd hard by black despair,
Insult, hate, and injury,
Scorn, contempt, and beggary;
Hunger sharp, and nakedness,
Squalid looks, and wretchedness;
Feeble frame, and withered limb,
Fell remorse, that spectre grim;
Beauty fled, and strength decaying,
Conscience on the vitals preying.

Sickness sore, diseases dire,
Burning with internal fire;
Sores, and loathsome rottenness,
Agony, and fix'd distress;
Curses, oaths, and desperation,
View and dread of near damnation :
Convulsive laughter, deepest sadness,
Frenzy wild, and moping madness.

Shunn'd, despis'd, by all forgot,
Hopeless, helpless is her lot;
Who shall ease her pangs acute?
Who'll befriend the prostitute?
Who will bring the wretch relief?
Who will soothe the outcast's grief?
Death alone her woes must end;
Death, the outcast 's only friend!
Ere that last sad hour arrive,
May she see her God, and live!
May that Power who answers pray'r
To the dying wretch draw near!
In her wounds soft pour the balm,
Hush her feelings to a calm;
Bid her agonizings cease,
Lull her tortur'd soul to peace ;
Restore her blessed mental ray,
And take her to eternal day!

For ever with her God and Father dear,
To taste that mercy man denied her

here.,

B. STEPHENSON. Pentonville, Nov. 1807.

A DIRGE AT MIDNIGHT.

A FRAGMENT.

ON the noble organ 's swell,
Charm'd throughout the night I'd
dwell;

While the heavenly solemn sound
Breaks the awful silence round
With magic power, beyond controul,
O'er my rapt, entranced, soul;
Dissolv'd in speechless ecstasy,
Stealing imperceptibly.
Softly breathing to my ear,
Strains that dying martyrs cheer,
Sounds that saints departing hear.
Moving, melancholy, slow,
Let the lengthen'd numbers flow,
Sadly sweet, and soft, and low:
Sad as death, and soft as sleep,
Let the mournful music weep;
Plaintive, piteous, melting, tones,
Of grief extreme, and smother'd moans
Of agony, and dying groans;
While the sobbing instruments,
Broken sigh the deep laments.

Pentonville.

B. STEPHENSON

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Taught me to smirk, to lisp, and talk of Love.

Sweet forty-five I am this very morn,

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And I've left off my aunt's fantastic All off my head my mixed hair I'

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shave,

And sport the wig as other ladies do; A set of teeth of ivory white I'll have, And patch, and paint, since now it's all the go.

Pity the suff'rings of an aged maid,

And in compassion take me to your

arms,

Or soon with love I die, (I am afraid,} Then sink to dust my beauty and my charms.

VIRTUE

[Written under a spreading Tree, on
Pinnor Hill, Middlesex.]

O YOU! who pass these sylvan glades,
Embow'r'd in cool refreshing shades ;
Allow beneath this spreading tree
One moment to mortality.
When lab'ring up this steep ascent,
Your eyes upon the summit bent,
Toilsome and long the way appear'd,
And you the undertaking fear'd:
Yet, as you near and nearer drew,
The labour lessen'd to your view;
And when this calm recess you've gain'd,
You wonder that the thought had pain'd.
Tis so with virtue, when we see,
From far the sweet Divinity;
Her distant radiance we admire,
But think the tedious road may tire.
'Tis true she is with roses crown'd,
Yet intervening Thorns are found:
At length determined to pursue
The object that enchants our view,
With noble resolution arm'd,
By hope inspir'd, by glory charm'd,
Despising vicc--contemning rest-
We venture-persevere-are blest.
C. H. L. P

SONNET TO THE HEART.

R.

SAY, trembling tenant of this pensive breast,

What lurking sorrow thus thy peace destroys?

Why melancholy sadness o'er thy joys Thus broods; and, cruel, robs thee of thy rest?

Does some fair maid for whom the heavy sigh

In tones convulsive shrills around thy

seat?

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IN S

SEEING HER WALKING
CHURCH-YARD BY MOONLIGHT

THE peaceful eve, with smile serene,
Her twilight mantle spread,
And Cynthia o'er the dewy green,
A silv'ry lustre shed.

The feather'd songster's pleasing strain,
No longer charm'd the pensive swain,
Amidst the leafy trees;

Or echoed on the breeze,

All, all were hush'd in every grove

That borders S's vale;
Save Philomel, who tun'd her love,
And told her ev'ning tale.

On Echo's car her plantive strains
In mournful accents play'd,
And sweetly in the distant plains
The warbling notes decay'd.

And canst thou leave the giddy throng,
And pace the church-yard drear,
To listen to her ev'ning song,

Soft swelling on the ear?

Sweet bird of night! for her extend

Each falling eve thy throat;
And oh! ye whisp'ring gales befriend
The melancholy note!-

How happy is the swain who treads

With thee yon cloister's sable shades,
As gentle ev'ning bends,
And all thy teps attends.

The loves that round thy features play
Bid as their charms beguile,
To him those coral lips convey

A heav'n in their smile.

Oh could I stray, the wish how vain,

And fondly listen to the strain
With thee the groves among;

That warbled from thy tongue,
At once for ever I'd resign

Each busy scene of care,
To lisp the praise so justly thine,
Thou fairest of the fair!

FOREIGN NEWS.

Leghorn, Sept. 4.

THE entry of the French troops into eur city was so unexpected, that no one knew beforehand of their coming: from that time their number has increased to 6,000, General Dumoulin commands them. Two French commissaries arrived with them, who immediately ordered an embargo to be laid on all the ships in port, to examine if their cargoes consisted of English merchandise or not; the troops occupied the ports and the forts of the city.

The next day, the General published a proclamation, ordering all persons who possessed English merchandise of whatever nature it might be, to make a declaration thereof within twenty-four hours, with an injunction to every merchant who should not make an exact declaration, of paying three times the value of the goods, which should be entirely confiscated; besides, no ship should leave the port, and no person to quit the city until fresh orders. The English have sustained at Leghorn an incalculable loss, as it was there that they have for some years past sent all the goods with which they supplied Italy.

Lisbon, Sept. 7. At last, activity begins to shew itself here! Every ship of war in the river is put into commission, and they are at work at them all day and all night, Sundays and holidays not excepted. Our squadrons in the Mediterranean are called home, and small ships sent off to the islands for seamen, from whence you may know they always get recruits for our navy. The whole world seems to believe that these ships are preparing to convoy a certain personage to the Brazils, and that it is very true that the demands of France have been reVOL. XXXVIII.

jected entirely; but there is no change in the Ministry in any department. Pressing for soldiers has been much talked of, but nothing of the kind has taken place; nor can I perceive any thing that indicates land preparations; and what good purpose could it answer to make any? Accounts froni France and from Spain are so contradictory, regarding the invasion of this country, that no one knows what to believe. There is no doubt but an army of observation is collecting at and near Bayonne; and I believe it is equally true, that our imbecile neighbours are raising more troops.

Vienna, Sept. 19. They write from Trieste, that on the 5th inst. a squadron was seen, consisting of three frigates and thirty transports, having on board the Russian troops from Cattaro, who intended to land at Venice; but the English frustrated this object, and forced the said squadron to take shelter in the port of Pisano, where it is now blockaded.

Lisbon, Oct. 10. We have been disappointed of the arrival of a packet; the departure of the convoy is, with difficulty, postponed to the 16th instant; the Lively will accompany it, leaving the Cephalus brig at the orders of Lord Strangford, and the Raven, to remain in the neighbourhood. The Portuguese squadron in the Mediterranean had been sent for, and is arrived. Six ships of the line are ready. The Prince of Beira (a child nine years of age) is said to be about to embark for the Brazils. It is doubtful whether his father, the Prince Regent, will go. The Portuguese ministry are anxious for the English to get off. We have no advice of the French having begun their march from Bayonne.

Venice, Oct. 11. We learn from Mal 4 L

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