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This house, remember, thou art in;
Is but of clay, and built but thin,

And soon is pull’d to pieces :
Yet should'st thou rend this house in twaid,
Perchance thoul't not a better gain,

Nor one on longer leases.

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

No longer charms, whose music all is past ; Prepar'd to shed their last autumnal bloom,

And bare their foreheads to the wintry blast. To those, who riot in the mad career

Of wealth and luxury and idleness,
Whose souls ne'er felt, whose eyes ne'er shed a tear

For worth forsaken, or for pale distress,
No moral charm these pensive scenes impart;

But they of softer mould, to nature true,
Now own a kindly influence on the heart,

And love ev'n fields and groves of sadder hue.

1

These teach, that mortal bliss must swiftly die,

And Man return to night's unending shade; That some on sorrow's dreary couch must lie,

And wait for peace a pitying brother's aid; That, while thro’ fortune's paths we jocund tend,

"Tis ours each headlong passion to restrain, A heart too frail from vanity defend,

And serious think on those, who suffer pain. These too with tender thoughts awhile may charm,

And wake the mem'ry of departed hours, That ʼmid the wilds of life, beset with harm

And pain and sorrow, smile like summer flow'rs;
Endear'd perhaps by those, whose looks we lov'd,

Whose gentle voice was music to our ears,
Now far away by fates unkind remov'd,
Or
gone,

where love is vain, and vain our tears.

These too may speak of early friendships flown,

As thro' life's ever-changing paths we go,
Of blending hearts, estrang’d and careless grown,

And beaming looks that now no longer glow,
Spring shall return, and these forsaken glades

And faded hills and woods of foliage pale Again shall bloom, again the forest shades

Will charm, and birds the dew-ey'd morning hail; But ne'er shall youth, nor youth's delights return,

Nor youth's warm sentiments, that love create, Bidding with stronger, purer flames to burn;

Nor those we mourn escape the bonds of fate.

E, HAMLEY,

ODE.

How fresh the breezes blow!

How softly swell the hills! How kind the sun's bright glow!

What soothing in the rills !

All, all with transport thrills ! Scenes that alone impart 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.-0 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 wildly

warbling thrush.
April! thy changeful day

Though tempest oft alarms,
I greet; since the sweet May
Owes to thy fostering arms
Her more than mortal charms'!

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 HA

RIET 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 ľadorn,
“ September, bounteous God, presents?
66 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,
16 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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