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On learing Tours.

My Gallic friends-ye friends belor'd in vain!
Thou vale of Tours, where Faith and Friendship

And every greenwood grove and every plain,

Ye lost lamented scenes, ah, fare ye 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 ine 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 skade my grave.

W. J.


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,
Rich Genius bids her magic music float:
When, shelter'd from the sun, in woodbine bowers,

Sweet to the sylvan and romantic car
The bee's incessant melody to hear,

“* 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 :
But, sweeter far than all such strains may bring

Of mingled rapture, is the bliss we prove
Listening the music of the voice we love.

* 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


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.


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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
Beats on the massy pile, whose summit proud

In sullen grandeur frowns upon the plain.
As slowly-wandering o'er the dank, chill ground,

My footsteps press the fallen foliage sere,
Methinks each leaf, with soft but forceful sound,

Bewails the dying beauties of the year. Ah, fast-expiring year! might I but close With thy brief date my pilgrimage of woes!

Nov. 1796.

the A, D,



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