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I love thy chequer'd hour;
Still mingling, as in life, the sunshine and the

show'r.
Sweet breeze! no gentler breath

Fans the bright bowers above;
Reviv'd from wintry death,

Where all is youth and love!

Nor wing'd the appointed dove
With holier calmness fraught,
When to the rested ark Heaven's olive branch
she brought.

P. L. C. APRIL 28, 1805.

SONG.

BY RICHARD FENTON, ESQ. TELL

me, what can mean this riot In my pulse when Damon's nigh; That my breast is never quiet,

Ever heaving with a sigh ?
If such tokens don't discover
What it is to be a lover,

Then, O tell me what am I?
But, alas ! poor thoughtless creature !

By each pulse betray'd, and sigh,
There's a tongue in every feature,

And a thousand in the eye, Which to Damon will discover What it is to be a lover,

And to tell him, what am I. VOL. VI.

х

THE TEARS OF ASTROP.

AN EPISTLE TO MISS HARRIET BLOSSET.

BY MICHAEL WODHULL, ESQ.

Gli angelici sembianti nati in cielo
Non si ponno celar sotto alcun velo.-ARIOSTO.

" Can the blest swains of Astrop pine,
« When, crown'd with Amalthean horn,
" Such savory cates, such floods of wine,
" Such slaughter'd hecatombs of geese,
« This * chosen festival t adorn,
“ September, bounteous God, presents?
" Heavens! what unusual discontents
• O'ershade these antient realms of Peace?
6 Pale Care sits thron'd'on every brow;
“ And they, who rarely thought till now,
“ Rival with furrow'd look forlorn
“ Each old Philosopher of Greece."

In these light strains exclaim'd some youth,
Yet uninstructed whence arose
The signs he view'd of deepest woes,
Curious to penetrate the truth.
All strove to answer;-silence hung
With leaden weight on every tongue,
And testified excess of grief.
Long had they paused, when from the Spring
Its Genius (whom, as Poets sing,
Hygeia sends to the relief
of sickness) rising, thus express'd
The feelings that for utterance heav'd

In every sentimental breast; • Michaelmas-day, annually commemorated at Astrop Wells, in Northamptonshire.

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* Young stranger, whosoe'er thou art,

(For sure it ought to be believed, “ Since in my pangs thou bear'st no part, “ Far from my source, in some bleak wild, * Where Wit and Beauty never smild, “ Thou drew'st thy natal breath) attend, “ And make our wretchedness thy own; “Not that yon lowering clouds impend, “ Not that we view these groves bereav'd « Of leafy honours, do we moan; " But that from these neglected shades, “Anticipating Winter's reign, “ Fair Harriet flies; who, midst the maids “ That haunt the margin of yon stream,

Winding along my fertile plain, “ Shone with unrivall’d elegance; « Of these unbidden tears, that force “ Their passage, she, the conscious theme, “ Flies, unrelenting as the wind, “ Nor casts one pitying glance behind, “ To bid these meads a last adieu : “ Hadst thou beheld that graceful ease “ With which she trod, in mazy dance "My fragrant vales and woodbine bowers,

Slighting applause, secure to please,

When, votary of the rural powers, " She quitted Thames's banks, resign'd 6 The studied ornaments of dress, “ And look'd, and was, a Shepherdess, " Thou too badst sympathiz'd with these, “ Whose smart excites thy gaiety. “ Whether to term such ignorance « Of this transcendant fair, mischance, “ Or bliss, I hesitate; beware " Rashly the magic cup to share

« Of dangerous Sensibility,
“ That draught, to vulgar lips denied,
“ Where in confusion blended lie
" Th' extremes of pleasure and of pain ;
“ Hence all its baleful dregs to miss,
“ Yet taste the quintessence of bliss,
“ Heaven's favourites, few alone attain.
“ Love in a slight degree beguiles
“ The storms of Life's precarious tide;
“ But if too far its Siren smiles
“ The guardless traveller bewitch,
“ Headlong to rush into the snare,
Urged on by Hope, beset with Care,
“ Too late, solicitous to fly,
" He feels it in its utmost pitch,
6. Distraction all and agony."

He ended ; and the bubbling fount,
Closed o'er his venerable head,
First having bade me to recount
To the dank vales and lowly cot,
Where Fate assign’d my humble lot,
The truths he spoke, the tears he shed.

O, form’d to shine in every sphere !
How shall the pastoral Muse presume
To wish ingloriously confin'd
A nymph so fitted to adorn
The court and splendid drawing-room,
From an admiring nation's gaze,
From scenes, where in full radiance blaze
The beauties which adorn that mind,
And animate those features, here
Amid the pines, grotesque and rude,
O’ershadowing this deep solitude?
Yet sometimes deign to lay aside
Those envied gaieties, nor scorn
To visit our forsaken rill.

Old legend tells, on Ida's hill, With winged Hermes for their guide, Erst to the Phrygian shepherd's will Contending Goddesses applied, And, urging eagerly their suit, Tho' with each boon of Heaven endued, O'erjoyed with the vicissitude, Sought from his hand the golden fruit. Should you, like these, awhile forego The surer triumphs of your eyes, Thro' curiosity to know, If aught of ancient tąste remains Among us simple village swains, And from our verdict seek the prize; Boldly with an applauding voice Should we decide, nor fear, lest Age, Or miserable Envy's rage, Might deem us biass’d in our choice: Each snarling censor we defy Whose honest judgement truth ensures Against that idle calumny, That, with a Venus' person caught, Minerva's wit we little sought When either claim confirms it yours.

Alas, in such untutor'd plains, Ill can these rustic fingers hold A lyre, attemper'd to the strains In which immortal Chaulieu told Of Turenne snatch'd from Victory's arms, Of Bethune's wisdom, Bouillon's charms, And Steinkerque's memorable day; Indeed, like Orpheus' magic song His drew no listening brutes along, But in a light and polish'd age,

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