Here, Peace, bring health-hence, fullen deep Dejection!
Here dreams of grief to waking joys give way:
Lift to yon thrush-his fong chides fad reflection;
Soft confolation pours from ev'ry spray,
To tharm the foul refign'd with full harmonious lay.
ON SEEING A NOTICE TO PARTIES NOT TO
THE MEADOWS OF A CLERGYMAN, ON THE BANKS
MOSES, the meekeft and the best of men,
Confin'd his mild and pure decrees to ten;
But thou, benevolent elect of Heav'n,
Haft fwell'd the code fo pious to eleven;
And, left our joys below fhould be too sweet,
Command'ft us, in thy kindness, not to eat.
THE INCHCAPE ROCK.
O ftir in the air, no ftir in the fea,
The fhip was ftill as fhe might be;
Her fails from heav'n receiv'd no motion
Her keel was fteady in the ocean.
Without either fign, or found of their fhock,
The waves flow'd over the Inchcape Rock :
So little they rofe, fo little they fell,
They did not move the Inchcape bell.
The pious Abbot of Aberbrothok
Had floated that bell on the Inchcape Rock;
On the waves of the ftorm it floated and fwung,
And louder, and louder, it warning rung.
When the Rock was hid by the tempeft's (well,
The mariners heard the warning bell;
And then they knew the perilous Rock,
And blefs'd the priest of Aberbrothok,
The fun in heaven fhone fo gay.
All things were joyful on that day:
The fea-birds fcream'd, as they fported round,
And there was pleasure in their found.
The float of the Inchcape bell was feen,
A darker fpeck on the ocean green;
Sir Ralph, the rover, walk'd his deck,
And he fix'd his eye on the darker fpeck.
He felt the cheering pow'r of fpring;
It made him whistle, it made him fing:
His heart was mirthful to excefs--
But the rover's mirth was wickedness.
His eye was on the bell and float-
Quoth he, "My men, put out the boat;
And row me to the Inchcape Rock,
And I'll plague the priest of Aberbrothok."
The boat is lower'd, the boatmen row,
And to the Inchcape Rock they go;
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,
And cut the warning bell from the float.
Down funk the bell, with a gurgling found;
The bubbles rofe, and burst around.
Quoth Sir Ralph, " The next who comes to the Rock, Will not blefs the priest of Aberbrothok."
Sir Ralph, the rover, fail'd away;
He fcour'd the feas for many a day;
And now, grown rich, with plunder'd ftore,
He fteers his courfe to Scotland's fhore.
So thick a haze o'erfpreads the sky,
They could not fee the fun on high;
The wind hath blown a gale, all day;
At evening it hath died away.
On deck the rover takes his stand,
So dark it is, they fee no land;
Quoth Sir Ralph, "It will be lighter foon,
For there is the dawn of the rifing moon."
30 THE BLIND LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS.
"the breakers roar?
For yonder, methinks, thould be the fhore.
Now, where we are I cannot tell,
But I wish we could hear the Inchcape bell."
They hear no found; the fwell is strong;
Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along,
Till the veffel ftrikes with a fhiv'ring fhock-
O Chrift! it is the Inchcape Rock!
Sir Ralph, the rover, tore his hair;
He curft himfelf in his defpair.
The waves rufh in on ev'ry fide,
The fhip is finking beneath the tide.
But even in his dying fear,
One dreadful found could the rover hear;
A found as if with the Inchcape bell,
The devil below was ringing his knell.
THE BLIND LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS.
BY LAURA SOPHIA TEMPLE.
AH! let me hear again that mellow ftrain,
That dulcet trill, whofe foft and lucid fweep
Steals o'er my trembling foul like gale of eve,
That o'er the world of waters steals its wing,
Wakening the fea-wave. Thus let thy fweet fong
Wake the now flumb'ring waves of paufing thought,
And through my fecret heart pour the rich tide
Of mem'ry's flood, Let the fair fades arife
Of buried hours; let ev'ry witching charm
That fancy weaves, hang on thy' quiv ring note,
And fpeak of raptures pait, and yet to come.
What though to me are veil'd the living morn,
And gay luxuriance of the woodland bloom;
Though fpring fteps forth to wander o'er the wild,
Yet paffes me without one funny fmile:
Though moon, nor ftars, nor all the beamy train
That gem the blue ferene, ere hang their lamps
To blefs-thefe raylefs orbs-yet am I blefs'd
Beyond their power of bleffing.-Mufe, my heart,
O'er all thy treafures! oh! with a mifer's care,
Brood o'er the rich amount! Weep tears of joy,
To think thou 'rt monarch o'er a world of love!
Yes, the is mine!--fhe chofe me from the throng;
Me, whom the frown of fate forbade to drink
The rapture-fwimming light of beauty's glance,
Forbade to pour the deep and lengthen'd gaze
Of tendernefs-forbade to fondly dwell
On ev'ry gentle waving line of grace
That marks that angel form :-the feraph fmile,
The warm and mantling tinge, the funny locks
That break in wild profufion o'er the brow,
Throwing their foften'd shade-to me are loft.
I only hear thon, 'rt fair-from others hear
Of all the bright perfections of thy face:-
Yet can I inward look and view thee there,
Glowing in all the finer charms of mind,
There will I gaze-there dwell in witching trance
On all thy truth, and fingleness of heart.
Ah! lead me, dear one! to the craggy steep,
For now the fea-gale hurries o'er its brow
On fresh'ning wing; and o'er the upland scene
Steals the foft veil of eve.-Let airs of heav'n
Bathe my faint form-and thou, O moft belov'd,
Give to my foul again the light of fong.
PAWLITSKI AND ARAVINE.
A RUSSIAN BALLAD.
[The Ballad, of which the following is an Imitation, is ftill a very favourite one in Ruffia. It is attributed to the pen of Peter the Great.]
NEAR Mofcua Reca's* ftream fo clear,
A lover rofe before the fun,
To view the tow'r where flept his dear,
Whofe charms his youthful heart had won.
*Mofcua Reca is a river which runs near the city of Moscow.
"Awake, my love," Pawlitski cries,
"All nature 's now awake:
The heavenly beams of your bright eyes
Make day ftill lovelier break.
"Sweet lark! go, warble at her ear,
With mufic break her fleep:
Tell her, her faithful lover's here
Condemn'd to mourn and weep.
"Tell the dear idol of this breast
No peace or joy is mine:
This beating heart will ne'er know reft,
Till bleft with Aravine."
The lark obedient spreads its wings,
Beats at her bow'r above:
In tendereft notes the meffage brings,
And tells his tale of love.
The beauteous maid sprang from her bed,
The cafement open'd wide:
Again to hear the lark fhe fped,
Her lover fhe efpied.
But, O fond lover! now prepare
Thy destiny to know :
Prepare thy foul for deep defpair,
And heart-confuming woe.
See at her chamber-window high,
Your Aravine appears :
But grief fits fettled in her eye,
Her face is drown'd with tears.
Her cheek the rofy tints have fled,
The bloom of joy is gone:
The beauteous lily hangs its head,
Woe-ftrick'n, pale and wan.
She cries, "Pawlitski, ever dear,
Take now my last farewell:
A tale of woe muft meet your ear,
My tongue can fcarcely tell.
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