From a task, that would pose bigot-zeal,
'Tis sure no discredit to fly;

At her feet too, where monarchs might kneel,
Methinks, 'twere a pleasure to die!

'Tis late, that I came to the plain,
But late, I consulted my ease ;
My youth was an era of pain,

And my quiet-the sport of the seas!
But still, on what shore I was thrown,
The rigors whate'er of the clime;
My liberty sweet, was my own,

And I dreaded no victor, but time!

Alas! that a nymph of the grove,
More fatal than tempests should be;
Alas! that the arrows of Love,
Should only be poison'd for me!
Whene'er on my rivals I muse,

To what depths of despair am I hurl'd-
For how but to doubt, can he choose,
Whose rivals consist-of a world!

Then, since neither titles nor birth,
Nor talents, her hand can ensure;
Since kingdoms fall short of her worth,
For the purchase-a CRŒESUS were poor!
Cease, cease, thy demerits to heed,
Essay her compassion to move;

Tho' a shepherd-thy truth may succeed,
For the price of HONORIA, is love!

THE GOBLET.

THEY tell me, in the sparkling bowl
There is a balm for every care;
They tell me, there, the tortured soul
May find a refuge from despair.

Then gaily pass the goblet round,
And freely let the nectar flow!
If joy is in the goblet found,

Oh! who would nurse the thorn of woe?

I feel, I feel, the glowing tide!

'Tis circling round my frozen heart,

Thro' ev'ry vein I feel it glide

New warmth, new vigour, to impart.

Come bring the wreath of

rosy twine,
The harp so long forsaken bring,
And while my bosom glows with wine,
My lip again of joy shall sing.

Ah! sweet, but long forgotten strain,
And harp that's lain neglected by,
Since pleasure's cup was fill'd with pain,
And hope's fair flower was doom❜d to die.

Yet look not back, change, change the theme,
And talk of joys for ever bright;
Think of the past as of a dream,

That vanish'd at the morning's light.
Sweet the buds our brows are shading,
Bright the goblet sparkling high,
The rose of pleasure knows no fading,
The goblet's ruby cannot die.
Of joy, of joy alone, I'll sing!
Sorrows past rememb'ring never;
While, my harp, thy silver string
Pleasure's song is warbling ever.

WHISTON BRISTOW.

MADRIGAL.

FROM THE FRENCH OF MONTREUIL,

WHY

HY ask so oft, with fond alarms,

If constant I'll remain?

And o'er my heart how long thy charms
Will hold their wonted reign?

No more these questions let me hear,
Since I can not reply ;-

I do not know, my Sylvia dear,
The day when I shall die.

R. A. DAVENPORT.

LINES

Written in the Middle of a Night in February 1807, during the whole of which Night blew a tremendous Hurricane.

WRAPT in the dusky gloom of night
Triumphant rides upon the blast
The Genius of the Storm;

*

Trembles the wretch with wild affright,
Within whose breast with guilt aghast
Conflicting horrors swarm!

Ill fated they, from Albion torn,
Who bound to some far distant shore
Are lash'd by ocean's wave;

I hear methinks the shriek forlorn
Of him who, while mad billows roar,
Sinks to his wat'ry grave!

Father of heaven! whose outstretch'd arm
And might even thundering storms obey,
These ancient walls † defend;

While whirlwinds make with dire alarm
On prouder domes their boisterous way,
O'er these thy power extend !

* Shakspeare, King Lear.

+ Within which the author was living.

H. P

IRREGULAR ODE.

ON THE DEATH OF THE EMPRESS CATHARINE II. OF RUSSIA.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,

And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike th' inevitable hour;

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

GRAY.

HARK to that pæan song, whose choral lay
Sounds the glad march of FREEDOM's smiling train;
With what sweet cadence does it die away,

And now, how wild and warlike ring!

List, Russia, to its notes so sweet

Winding amid each green retreat,

That now, in more than mortal strain,

From Tenglio's chill and storm-rock'd clime afar,

From the bleak regions of the polar star,

To where Circassia's beauties lave

Amid the Caspian's mimic wave,

From Warsaw's ruin'd towers and gory plain,
To Oonolasca's ever cheerless reign,

O'er many a frowning cliff and hill sublime,
Through many a cold inhospitable clime,

Symphonious float on echo's viewless wing.