This house, remember, thou art in, Yet should'st thou rend this house in twain, VERSES WRITTEN IN AUTUMN. THE gladsome hours are gone, and from the fields, Now mute and naked, cheerful Toil retires; The sun far off a paler radiance yields, And darts more faint his horizontal fires. Mark, how the thickets fade! whose pleasing gloom To those, who riot in the mad career No moral charm these pensive scenes impart ; And love ev'n fields and groves of sadder hue. These teach, that mortal bliss must swiftly die, That, while thro' fortune's paths we jocund tend, And serious think on those, who suffer pain. These too with tender thoughts awhile may charm, And pain and sorrow, smile like summer flow'rs; Endear'd perhaps by those, whose looks we lov'd, Or gone, where love is vain, and vain our tears. These too may speak of early friendships flown, Spring shall return, and these forsaken glades Will charm, and birds the dew-ey'd morning hail; But ne'er shall youth, nor youth's delights return, E. HAMLEY, ODE. How fresh the breezes blow! True vigour to the mind, sweet solace to the heart! Hark! from the inmost grove, Borne by the scented gale, The bird of thought and love Is heard.-O nightingale! Thee early do I hail; Thy full of music long May listening woods resound, and love reward the song! While in the mid-way skies The shrill lark seems to float, As yet the cuckoo tries Faintly her mellowing throat; Soft is the blackbird's note; Nor yet, at evening's blush, Long heard from hedgerows green the wildlywarbling thrush. April! thy changeful day Though tempest oft alarms, 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! With holier calmness fraught, When to the rested ark Heaven's olive branch she brought. APRIL 28, 1805. P. L. C. SONG. BY RICHARD FENTON, ESQ. TELL me, what can mean this riot Ever heaving with a sigh? If such tokens don't discover Then, O tell me! what am I ? But, alas! poor thoughtless creature! And to tell him, what am I, 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, In these light strains exclaim'd some youth, 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 Hygeia sends to the relief Of sickness) rising, thus express'd The feelings that for utterance heav'd * Michaelmas-day, annually commemorated at Astrop Wells, in Northamptonshire. |