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On Irak's plains, on Tygris' tide,
Say, if this heart should harbour love,
Would'st thou protect the blossom?
And warm it in thy bosom?
Even in its tender morning?
And Winter's blast, thy scorning. · 0! rather let me nurse it here,
Tho'cold and dead my bosom, And water it with sorrow's tear,
A timid, unknown blossom.
MR. JAMES JRVING,
Go to thy darling, false one! go !
And gaze enraptur'd on her charms, Sink on her breast of melting snow,
And court her fond luxuriant arms. Murmur again the ardent vow,
That mingles hope with fond desire, Now paints the lover's wish-and now
Beholds a woe-worn wife expire. I weep not this! my day is o'er,
All I have done, and suffer'd, vain ; Nor pity can my soul implore,
From those who triumph in my pain. Yet know—whene'er thy wish is sped,
When thou canst claim thy bosom’s bride, When she lies number'd with the dead,
Who mourn’d and blest thee till she died; When thou shalt revel light as air,
And laugh at care, and banish toil, For her thou lov'st the bliss will share, And
pour a zest on fortune's smile; Yet come it will, the fatal hour,
When clouds these brilliant scenes o'ercast, When cank’ring care asserts his pow'r,
Or fiercely blows misfortune's blast.
When keen vexation sours the mind,
Or wild caprice the temper bends, Or hasty anger, wild and blind,
Where most it loves, there most offends;
Then wilt thou learn too late, how dear
That patient spirit wont to be, Whose love, submissive as sincere,
Endur'd each angry taunt from thee.
Who, proud thy virtues to reveal,
Thy genius or thy wit to scan,
In the beloved shew'd the man.
Found thee when wreck'd on sorrow's coast, Stoop'd to thee humble as a child,
And yet upheld thee as an host.
And thou wert guilty passion's slave,
And sought to hide them in the grave. Go to thy darling false one! go!
The storms of life around thee howl, And thou shalt find her heart is snow,
And dark as Erebus her soul.
She who to confidence like mine,
Could coolly act so base a part, Was never form'd to blend with thine,
A faulty, but a noble heart.
Oh! when I think on what thou art,
soul to make thee strove,' Fresh tears of agony will start,
And angry sorrow melt to love.
The anguish thou hast bade me feel,
More poignant than the venom'd steel, Learn jealous love's impetuous woes,
And blighted hope's corroding grief, The pang ingratitude bestows,
And dark despair that spurns relief.
Nay, by my very wrongs, I swear-
FROM THE GREEK
το ροδον κ. τ. λ.
How fragrant blows
That lovely rose !
I came; but to my sorrow
AT HIGHGATE, MIDDLESEX, JULY 9, 1811).
BY T. PARK, ESQ.
It was a spectacle of hallow'd joy,
with mitred mace;