XXXVI.

'Twas Oscar! if a thought of dire revenge

Ere brush'd, ('tis thus the shadow fleets away) The Minstrel's mind; how glorious was the change! As in pale death his foeman gasping lay!

It was a sight of pity and dismay!

But, O! what feelings tortur'd Edwin's heart!

He would have run with kindness to repay

Each wrong; to bind each wound; to heal each smart! His irons smote his soul! each enter'd like a dart.

XXXVII.

Dread was the pause of silence; dread the din
Of dissonant doors and bars, and dread the shriek,
The hideous laugh, and murmurs far within!

Hark, other bolts! hark! nearer hinges creak!
Behold the castle heiress! all too weak

Her utterance:-lo! she swoons in Edwin's arms!
Pale the rose quivers on her lip her cheek!

But, as new life awakes, how wild the alarms
Throb in her flushing breast, and light up all her charms!

XXXVIII.

The various feelings of the trembling pair

Who, who could picture? Speechless, long they cast Unutterable looks ;—when the shrill'd air

Some messenger announc'd, approaching fast:
The banner'd herald to the drawbridge pass'd,
And there aloud claim'd Edwin's liberty;
His lineage, and his rightful heirship trac❜d,
And now to all the crowding tenantry

Spoke, with imperious voice, his lordly high degree.

XXXIX.

Conscious her glance met his!-She thought and sigh'd,
His dumb reserve had prov'd a twofold bane:
Then, like a blaze of light, his mystic pride

She saw unveil'd, and own'd its generous strain;
And joy'd, that mantled e'en in throngs profane,
Tho' for a while obscur'd, baronial blood;
Yet, (not of her ancestral honours vain)
View'd genius, first of every earthly good,
Rise paramount o'er birth, in its own hardihood!

XL.

And Edwin! where, where lurks the peasant lad? Clans, earldoms, wealth, and beauty, all thine own! Born the low peasant of the uncultur'd shade,

Thy proud inheritance"thy harp alone!

But, from the cot evolving to the throne,

As, nature, men, and manners meet thy views,
Shall not the sister-arts in loftier tone

Through life, delight and dignity diffuse;

And, feeling well their worth, the million bless thy Muse?

MADRIGAL.

FROM THE FRENCH OF COCQUARD.

I

FEEL when I see you a joy past expressing;
When no longer I see you, in anguish I fall!

Ah, to see you for ever would mine were the blessing;
Or would that I never had seen you at all!

R. A. D.

STANZAS

ON A FAVOURITE PLANTATION IN THE GROUNDS OF C. W. ESQ. ADDRESSED TO MISS W.

BY DR. RUSSELL.

I.

FOLLY, or Fancy, what they will,

Let fools your sweet plantation call; No matter if the sound be ill,

Since what we see is beauteous all.

The Cyprian shades, as bards have sung,
Were sacred to the Queen of Love;"
There, on the myrtles, Cupid hung
His bow, there sat the fav'rite dove.

But she, who makes these trees her care,
The Nymph that haunts this lovely shade,
Tho' as the Cyprian goddess fair,

Is chaster than the Delian Maid.

IV.

To friendship sacred be this place;
Keep, wanton Cupid, far away;
These walks shall Dora's presence grace,
While I to friendship tune my lay.

STANZAS

WRITTEN IN A SEAT IN THE SAME PLANTATION.

BY THE SAME.

1.

DORA, one day, no matter when,

While sitting on this seat, was saying, "I'll live a maid; I hate these men, Their sex is ever our's betraying.

II.

"Grant me, ye powers, but this request,
In my retreat from fops and folly,
Let me with one fair friend be blest!

One female friend will bless your Dolly.'

III.

Young Cupid, from a neighbouring tree,

Heard the grave Nymph her thoughts expressing, "And is it so, sage miss?" said he,

"Then why this care display'd in dressing?

IV.

Why, but some coxcomb's heart to win,
This gadding to all public places?

Why, but to take some racer in,

"

This coaching still to all the races ?

V..

Why, when a beau appears in view,

Those dimpling smiles, that bosom panting? Why, in each cheek, that change of hue?

Why, but I'll quickly stop your canting.

VI.

"I'll show the world how they're abus❜d,
Such grave gay baggages believing;
Know then, by me, you stand accus'd
Both of pursuing man, and thieving.

"

VII.

Nay, never hope your tricks to hide, (Come, hold your head up, hold it higher) You stole, I saw you, from my side

This dart, and threw it at yon 'squire."

VIII.

The Nymph, enrag'd, at Cupid's charge,
(But Cupid ne'er was whipt for lying)
Disdain'd to answer him at large,
Thus only with just pride replying:

IX.

"Were man, young sir, what I pursue,
Need I thy dart to pierce his liver?
My pencil, boy, which Homer drew,
Is of more force than half thy quiver.”

EPIGRAM

ON THE

REPRESENTATION OF TIMOUR THE TARTAR. 1813. BY B. H. BROWNE, M. D.

LET the Houynhnhms no longer be reckon❜d a fable, Now all our great actors are brought from the stable !