1

Thou wouldst not linger by the wreck, while succour was at hand

To bear thee quickly from its fate unhurt to peaceful strand;

Thou wouldst not place upon thy breast a soil'd or faded

rose;

Nor shalt thou share with me, loved one, the burden of my woes.

Scene-the Hall of an ancient Castle, in feudal times. Time-Night. A number of carousing Retainers are supposed to join in the following

WINTER-NIGHT'S CAROL.

THE SNOW falls fast,
And the angry blast

Howls o'er the dismal moor:

Now Winter reigns

O'er the desolate plains,

God-a-mercy on the poor!

CHORUS.

But heap the fire with faggots dry,

And warm the nut-brown ale,

And merrily sing while the storm sweeps by,
Or list to the pleasing tale.

The stream is still,

And the noisy rill

No more runs gaily on:

No flowers are seen,

No meadows green,

For Summer and Autumn are gone.

But heap, &c.

The wolves from the hill

The valleys fill—

Hark! hark to their fearful yell!

The birds of night

Scream with delight,

'Mid the gloom, like fiends of hell!

But heap, &c.

Our bloodhounds bay

For the dawn of day,

But we wish not for the morn;

For, with mirth and song,

When nights are long,

We drain the cheering horn.

Then heap the fire with faggots dry,

And warm the nut-brown ale,

And merrily sing while the storm sweeps by, Or list to the pleasing tale.

STANZAS

TO THE AUTHOR OF THE "PLEASURES OF HOPE."

En imitation of Spenser.

HAIL, mightie genius! whose inspiring straines,
And cheerfull roundelayes, delight our mind;
Thy pleasaunt and refyned language gaines
Our admiration; and in thee we finde
A being worthie to instruct mankinde,—
To fill his soule with infinite delight:
And he who to thy merit can be blinde
Knows ne what genius is-his soul in night
Oblivious sure is plunged; dark is his mental sight!

Thy wit doth flow from Nature's purest source:
Long shall thy name possesse a riche perfume:
And Time, while runninge on his speedie course,
Shall pass thy monument, and ne consume
One letter of thy fame; and, by thy tombe,
The youthfull genius oftentimes will straye,
From morne untill the evening's sombre gloome
Tells the departure of the orbe of daye,

When from the lonelie scene he'll bend his silent waye.

LINES

WRITTEN ON SEEING A LOVELY GIRL STANDING BY A RURAL WELL.

"A native grace

Sat, fair-proportion'd, on her polish'd limbs,
Veil'd in a simple robe, their best attire,
Beyond the pomp of dress; for loveliness
Needs not the foreign aid of ornament,
But is, when unadorn'd, adorn'd the most.
Thoughtless of beauty, she was Beauty's self,
Recluse amid the close-embowering woods."

THOMSON-Seasons.

I.

IMAGE of virtue! by the lonely well
Dost love to linger at this silent hour?
More lovely than the forms which poets tell
Dwelt 'mid the beauties of the Paphian bower.
Ah me! what subtle art, or earthly power,

Could clothe a figure with the grace that's thine? Thy brow is paler than the fairest flower;

Thine azure eyes are lit with fire divine;

A fresh glow's on thy cheeks; bright auburn locks, With which the zephyrs gently play;

And thy smile, like morn's first ray,

Baffles the sculptor's skill, the nicest pencil mocks!