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The plaintive Rowe, whose warbling breath
Dispers'd the melancholy gloom
Which at her dear Alexis' death
O'erhung the sickening vales of Frome,
To the soft Cyprian lute recites
The fears, the hopes, the fond delights,
The tender blandishments of love,
Their mutual happiness completing,
Where Innocence and Pleasure meeting,
Have fixed them in the realms above;

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Beside them Cytherea stands
In Virtue's snowy garb array'd,
And reunites their social hands
Sever'd by Death's remorseless blade :
The Loves with elegiac verse,
Meanwhile adorn the sable hearse
In which their mortal ashes lye,
And in due chaplet. Phoebus weaves,
The laurel's never-fading leaves,
The pledge of immortality.


Yet not from these romantick shades,
Whene'er I wake the Teian string,
Will I invoke th' harmonious Maids
Tunlock Castalia's vaunted spring:
The palms of Genius thinly spread
Where cypress glooms o'er-arch the dead
Let others glean:--My raptur'd ear
Has caught the soul-enchanting strains,
That on Salopia's happy plains
The bright Sabrina joys to hear:




We purpose

Whene'er, to guard some fertile mead
Against the rude encroacher's tread,

that the soil unsound
With ambush'd mischief should abound,
The law commands to hang on high
A caution to the passing eye,
That no one trespass ; and to show
What dangers threaten such as do,
That each offender risks to feel
The latent gun, or trap of steel.
But from the code of female laws,
Can we extract a single clause
Empower'd the fair one to compel
Of all her ambuscades to tell?
Within a blue dissolving eye
What mischief oft conceald will lie,
Or, in some ringlet left to stray,
What Cupids, meditating prey,
Like riflemen lurk up and down,
To pick their men and bring them down;
What fate the dimpled cheek invests,
Or heaves luxuriant in the breasts,
When gauze is taught bút half to hide,
And half disclose the panting pride;
To tempt the busy eye, how low
The bell-hoop'd petticoat must go ;

What artful folds the robe must take,
The form more flexible to make,
Till every pulse and limb may move,
The sure provocatives to love ;
What magic scale connects the kiss
And the last wild extreme of bliss,
Yet tho' no statute may

On such discovery to insist,
Kind Chloe near her every snare
Hangs out in capitals-BEWARE!
For, by a thousand ways exprest,
Her machinations stand confest;
Whilst every object gives the alarm,
To fly from the surrounding harm.
Her hangings by the Graces wrought,
With every warm voluptuous thought,
Instruct the emblematic room,
To antedate our certain doom.

To fill her sofas all the loves From Cytherea's moulting doves, Have caught and treasur'd up the down, In softness something like her own ; And see in all her toilet's round, What smallest implement is found, Without some ornamental hint, In speaking, varnish, or in print; Which seems not loudly to proclaim, That hearts are there the lawful game, A Cupid here, with guileful look, Bends a heart-angler o'er a brook ; And tho' he practise various baits Success each stratagem awaits : Another, at his mother's lips, In fatal balm his quiver tips,

Then with the sweetly-venom’d darts
Makes nursing pincushions of hearts,

Ye silent counsellors, how vain
Is all your monitory strain !
For let us only look at her
To whom those various types refer,
The syren with a glance destroys
The moral of the fabled toys;
The fate we see we cannot shun,
And by consent we are undone.


Written between Caernarvon and Bangor, Pleas'D have I travers'd that terrific vale, At which th' astonish'd traveller turns pale; Where Snowdon's form stupendous widely spread Props the high Heav'ns with his gigantic head, And Glyder's rocky sụmmit c'er sustains Fierce lightnings, warring winds, and dashing rains, Mountain of storms! and o'er the lake serene Dolbadern's solitary tow'r is scen. Yet, Menai, do I not thy haunts despise, Or view thy softer charms with careless eyes, Sweet wood and lawn, and Mona's tufted shore, By venerable Druids trod of yore; And here, fair stream, more glad would I abide, Than where dread Nature frowns in nobler pride, So, better far than proud ambition's strife Are the calm peaceful haunts of private life.





The Seaman in some wild tempestuous night,

When Horror rides upon the wide-mouth'd wave, And stars deny the mercy of their light,

Longs for some peaceful port his shatter'd bark to


The soldier struggling in unequal war,

In search of wounds and death condemn'd to roam, Or crown'd with blood-stain'd spoils in Victory's car,

Pants to return in peace to his dear native home.

* “ The lovers of elegant literature are much indebted to Miss Seward, not only for her original productions, but for the very highlyfinished Version of some Ocies of Horace, which she has presented to the public. The striking superiority of her specimens must he felt and acknowledged by all persons of taste, who have looked into the attempts of Creech and Francis. I shail ventre to assert, in defiance of pedagogues and pedants, that Niss Seward's Translation of the Ode to Barine will not suffer from the strictest comparison with the original--that-indeed it is more beautiful. From this persuasion, and to bear testimony to her poeticai merit, I am induced to inscrib: 10 that lady the above version of the prior part of Horace's Ode to Grosplius, and likewise a translation uf a delicious morceau of a more ancient bard, the fourth Idyilium of Mofchus The version from Horace perhaps may be rather called an imitation than a translation; but that from Niosclaus will, I believe, be found to be as close a version as the idiom of English yersification will adınit”-STEVENS.

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