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On leaving Tours.
My Gallic friends—ye friends beloo'd in vain!
well ! And fare ye well, ye village swains so gay,
Who to the pipe and tabor's merry sound, Done and forgot the labours of the day,
Each with your partners deftly trip the ground; Peace to your plains, and still with smile serene,
Fast by those fields for ever dwell Content: For Friendship hail'd me on your banks of green,
And smiling Welcome wheresoe'er I went! Oh! vale of Tours where Faith and Friendship dwell, And you, ye friends beloyed in vain, farewell.
To the River Stour.
Dear 'native Stream ! ah, dearer far to me
Than Thames, tho' grandeur crown his margin gay; And not the Loire, all lovely tho' she be,
And passing fair, cou'd woo my thoughts away, Forgetful of thy haunts, loved Stream : nor she,
The yellow Seine, whose peaceful waters play Through Gallia's fields, cou'd lure my heart from thee
That faithful heart which knows not how to stray. Dear native Stream ! lov'd Stour, to thee were paid
My earliest yows, and thou my last shall have : And as my earliest steps were wont to tread,
So shall my last, thy banks, paternal wave ! And yo 1, ye trembling willows, wont to shade
My youthful pastimes, ye shall shade my grave.
Sweer is Fame's pæan song, and choral note,
When o'er the grave of one she fondly lovod,
Caress’d by Virtue, and by Worth approv'd,
Sweet to the sylvan and romantic car
“* Murmuring her fairy tunes in praise of flowers:" And, sweet th'Eolian harp's enamour'd string,
When, by young Zephyr's balmy lip caress'd,
It trills the listless lover's soul to rest :
Of mingled rapture, is the bliss we prove
* Fron. Dr. D
n's Vacuna, 5th. vol, Dadsley's Coll.
On reading “ Sickness," an Elegy by the late Mr.
Headley; Editor of the Becauties of Ancient English Poetry.
EY T. PARK, ESQ.
Child of the classic muse! whose generous toil
Hath many a blossom to the rapı sight shown, Which else had slumber'd mid an adverse soil,
By weeds encumber'd or neglect o'ergrown:
Ah! why from hence hast thou so early flown? Could Sickness find no less lamented prey
? Or, like the cygnet's, did thy sad note moan To melt us with its own funereal lay
Yet hapless youth, thy spirit hath not fied Without the need of some melodious tear;
A bard * who lov'd thee living, weeps thee dead, And breathes his soul's warm incense o'er thy bier': For which, when death shall close his dulcet
song, May requiems like his own, his kindred fame prolong!
* The Rev. W. L. Bowles, late of Trinity-College, Oxford, published an Elegiae poem on the death of Mr, Headley.
THROUGH these dark groves no more the Zepligt
creeps, The moon's meek
walls no more; But the wild blast, with boisterous fury, sweeps
Through the half-leafless trees, and turrets hoar. Descending fast from many a gloomy cloud,
Driven by the tempest's rage, the drenching rain
In sullen grandeur frowns upon the plain.
My footsteps press the fallen foliage sere,
Bewails the dying beauties of the year. Ah, fast-expiring year! might I but close With thy brief date my pilgrimage of woes!
the A, D,