*

Or the spires, that high-bosom'd in trees "Reflect the slope sun's golden ray, "Have yet aught of beauty to please; "O haste, to my banks haste away.

"Say, where smile the meadows more green? "Where does Philomel warble more sweet? "What stream rolls more pure thro' a scene, "Where Spring's various treasures so meet? "O say, what can Avon compare

"To the towers, that crown my proud side! "Or when did the muses sport there?

"When deign'd Phoebus to bathe in his tide?

"Erewhile thou to Phoebus wast dear,

"When Ichin was calm'd by thy strains; "And fondly I deem'd I should hear

"Thy pipe echoing shrill through my plains. "Go, Corydon, throw that pipe down, "Thy lips now no longer it breathes; "Go, Corydon, pluck off that crown; "Those laurels ill brook pleasure's wreaths."

Oh Isis! thy taunts are in vain ;

Far other cares tear my sad heart!
Nor can Phœbus e'er sooth my fix'd pain;
-Ah me! Love but laughs at his art.
In vain nature pours o'er the ground
Her beauties-no beauties to me:

If wherever I roll them around
These eyes can no Maryanne see.

*Bosom'd high in tufted trees. MILTON
Ý VỚI GÌ CO và XƯA. Mosch: Ep: Bion:

tt.

SONNET.

BY JOHN LEYDEN, M. D.

ALAS! that Fancy's pencil still pourtrays
A fairer scene than ever nature drew:

Alas! that ne'er to Reason's placid view
Arise the charms of youth's delusive days,
For still the memory of our former years,

By contrast vain impairs our present joys; Of greener fields we dream, and purer skies, And softer tints than ever nature wears.

Lo! now to fancy Teviot's dale

appears,

Adorn'd with flowers of more enchanting hue
And fairer bloom than ever Eden knew,
With all the charms that infancy endears.
Dear scenes! which grateful memory must repeat,
Why should you make the present joys less sweet?

* Author of "Scenes of Infancy" a poem, descriptive of Teviot-dale,

14

SONNET.

TO THE YEW.

BY THE SAME.

WHEN Fortune smil'd, and Nature's charms were

new,

I lov'd to see the oak majestic tower;
I lov'd to see the apple's painted flower,
Bedropt with pencill'd tints of rosy hue:
Now more I love thee, melancholy yew,

Whose still green leaves in solemn silence wave
Above the peasant's rude unhonour'd grave,
Which oft thou moist'nest with the morning dew.
To thee the sad, to thee the weary fly;

They rest in peace beneath thy sacred gloom:
There, sole companion of the lonely tomb,

No leaves but thine in pity o'er them sigh.
Lo! now to Fancy's gaze thou seem'st to spread
Thy shadowy boughs to shroud me with the dead.

SONNET.

Written on the breaking out of the War between Austria and France.

THRICE foil'd, once more, O Austria! to the plain
Thou lead'st, in arms, thy renovated powers;
And, though through clouds the doubtful Future lours,
Brav'st toil and danger with a high disdain.
The nations round, a fallen and trembling train,
Wait anxiously, while Fear each heart devours,
For the dread conflict of the coming hours
Shall break, or rivet, Europe's galling chain.
String every nerve, bid all thy courage rise;

No common ardour must thy soul inflame:
Thou hast no safe retreat when Victory flies;

No midway path between disgrace and fame; Here, freedom, peace and glory, meet thine eyes; There, slavery, ruin, and eternal shame.

R. A. DAVENPORT.

SONNET.

On the Fall of Saragossa.

PROUD Conqueror! though o'er the ruinʼd wall,
Of Saragossa thy red banners wave,
Though thousands of her sons, at duty's call,
Have rush'd to find an honourable grave;
Yet thou, accurs'd Ambition's restless slave,
Check thy mean triumph o'er their glorious fall!
How poor and dim thy diadems, Q Gaul!

To those bright palms that shade the slaughter'd

brave.

History their patriot valour shall record;

And Freedom, bending o'er their sacred tomb, With grateful tears their noble toils reward: While thou, descending to the infernal gloom, To meet the tyrant's and the murderer's doom, Shalt leave a name by earth and heaven abhorr❜d!

1809.

R. A. D.