But woe betide the cruel hour,
That tore my Ellen from her bower;
For now, in glitt'ring pomp array'd,
She's quite forgot that e'er she said-

I love thee!

Oh! Ellen, when the grave shall shrine
The broken heart that once was thine,
Thou wilt recall the blissful eve,
When timid love first dar'd to breathe-

I love thee!

And finding then, that Fortune's beam
Sheds but a cold and sickly gleam,

Thou'lt wish the heart that's ceas'd to beat,
Could hear thy lips again repeat-

I love thee!

WHISTON BRISTOW.

TO MISS S.

IN IMITATION OF WALLER'S EPIGRAM,“ SUCH HELEN WAS."

SUCH

were the strains the tuneful Sappho sung! So sweet the notes of her enchanting tongue! But had like beauty bless'd the Lesbian's face, Had she, like thee, been crown'd with ev'ry grace, No scornful Phaon had her love deny'd,

The nymph had triumph'd, and the boy had dy'd.

DR. RUSSEL.

LINES

Written on finding, when at Dumfries, in 1811, that the Poet Burns was buried in the Churchyard without any Monument erected to his Memory.

SWEET bard! than whom no minstrel's art
More strongly moves th' enraptur'd heart,
Shalt thou in death unhonour'd lie,
No marble tomb, no trophy nigh;
While, stor❜d with wealth, in genius poor,
many rest in pomp secure?

So

Thou bad'st all nature weep thy friend *;
Shall none to thee rich trophies send?
Yet thee the Cushat in the grove
Oft mourns, forgetful of her love;
The little hare-bells droop their head,
Nor care to bloom, now thou art dead!
The owlet, from the aged tree,

All through the midnight wails for thee!
Shall man then, heedless of thy muse,
The sculptur'd urn to thee refuse?
He, Coila+ first to glory rais'd

Thy land, before unnam'd, unprais'd.

* See Burns's "Elegy on the Death of Matthew Henderson."

The old name of a district in Ayrshire, where Burns was born.

The Nine such base neglect upbraid,
Such rich deserts so ill repaid;
Enrag'd they quit thy shores unkind,
To dull Boeotian air consign'd!

MADRIGAL.

FROM THE FRENCH OF MONTREUIL.

H. P.

COME, prithee, get rid of those whimsies and fancies,
Which spoil you, and give me such pain;
'Tis eternally reading these idle romances,
Has made you so haughty and vain.

You think in the youth, who would fain be your lover,
Heroic perfection should shine;

That each look, and each word, and each deed, should discover,

He deems you a being divine.

'Tis the wildest of visions! then cease to caress it;

Nor to flattering praises give way.

I'm no angel, nor hero, I frankly confess it;

Do you the same candour display.

No goddess are you, from the heavens transported,
To set all the world in a flame;

But as pretty a maiden as ever was courted,

And Louisa, my dear, is your name.

R. A. DAVENPORT.

EPITAPH.

ON A FAITHful old feMALE SERVANT, WHO DIED AT THE AGE OF 91. 1813.

BY THE REV. R. POLWHELE.

NURSE of my infant age! nay more!
Unchill'd by time or chance,
Thy love had, at the closing hour,
Shewn its first vigilance.

II.

But 'twas a burden hard to bear,
E'en fourscore years and ten!
And I rejoice that thou art there,
Where is no grief, nor pain.

III.

Yes! after such a lapse of years
In anxious service past,
I smile, thro' sorrow's filial tears,
To see thee breathe thy last.

IV.

To joy, from trouble, art thou gone!

To peace, from earthly strife!

And "Well" (thy Lord shall say)" well done! "Come! enter into life!"

EPITAPH

ON DR. GILBERT PASLEY AT MADRAS. 1791.

BY EYLES IRWIN, ESQ.

YE! whom the glare of power, the lure of gold,
Whom interest, or ambition, hither drew;
Whose health or sickness PASLEY's talent told,
Bend o'er his grave, and bid a fond adieu!

From wan disease 'twas his your frames to raise,
Or by the clime, or by intemperance bought,
Or 'mid the vigour of your jocund days,

To mend the heart, and minister to thought!

But now, alas! is life's physician gone—
Him, INDIA mourns to her remotest bounds:
That art, reviving, like its parent sun,

That worth, which goodness stamp'd, are fleeting

sounds!

But yet, not fleeting-In the public eye
The lively image of his virtue floats:
To swell his praises, gratitude is nigh,

And friendship's lyre reverberates the notes!