Oh, scenes of my childhood! I view you once more;
My fancy retires from this wave-beaten shore;
My fancy retraces that lovely abode,
Where the steps of my youth and my innocence trod;
Oh, scenes of my childhood! I fly to your arms,
And gaze
with a lover's fond eye on your charms;
For still your wild graces shall comfort bestow,
And snatch for an instant my spirit from woe.

Ye vallies of beauty! ye summits of green!
To your lovely Eden no spoiler has been;
And Summer shall ever your graces renew,
Your woods of rich verdure, your skies of fair blúe.
My Summer has vanish'd no more to return,
In sadness and winter I ever shall mourn;
For nought can the lustre of Virtue restore,
When cropt are her blossoms, they flourish no more.

"Tis true, I might shorten this night of despair;
With the wings of a dove" I might fly from my care.
It is but to close the dark curtain of life,

To drown in oblivion its turmoil and strife;
Since no tear of pity for me would be shed;
Forgotten by all, I should sleep with the dead;
No sorrowing parent would hang o'er my grave,
Where the tall bearded thistle should mournfully wave.

Yet, No! I will bow to the rigours of fate,
For
peace yet awaits me,-nor distant the date.
Repentance is mine, and behold, from on high,
Faith beckons my fluttering soul to the sky:
She tells me to call on the God of my youth,
She bids me to trust to his mercy and truth,
And whispers," These words are recorded in Heav'n-
"Poor wand'rer look up, for thy sins are forgiv'n."

EXETER, FEB. 9, 1806.

ODE.

BY MR. SHAW.

YE lofty woods, that proudly sweep
Along the hill, along the plain,
That in your bounds fair pastures keep,
And fields enrich'd with golden grain :
Ah! not for me this ample space

Of hill and vale ye proudly sweep;
Nor yet for me your groves embrace
Rich fields and pastures white with sheep.
Yet let me praise you, not in vain

That your dark solitudes among
I may of fate unkind complain,
And love's reward delay'd too long:
Yet let me praise you, that I may

On your smooth trees the name engrave
Of her from whom so far I stray,
To wayward destinies a slave.

O mighty lords, ye to whose share

These woods and fields, and pastures fall, How long to you alone her care

Shall Fortune lend, deaf to my call?

Still busy for your state and power,
Fair lands, proud mansions to provide;
When will she rear my humble bower,
When will she give to me my bride?

1776

DESCRIPTION OF ALCINA.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF ARIOSTO.

HER form with richer charms was blest
Than glowing pencil e'er exprest;
Her hair in many a wanton fold
Wav'd long and bright as purest gold;
O'er her warm cheek were sweetly spread
The lily's white, the rose's red :
Her forehead such, the ivory's hue
Was ne'er so fair and polish'd too.

Crown'd by two sable arches shone,
Each, bright as e'er was noon-day's sun,
Two darkly-beauteous eyes that stole,
Beaming soft pity to the soul.
There Love eternal basking lay,
There prun'd his wings in fraudful play,
And ambush'd threw, with fatal arts,
His quiver'd store at heedless hearts.

Beneath, with every charm bespread,
With all its native glowing red,
A beauteous mouth by turns reveals,
By turns, the pearls within, conceals.
Hence, the mild accent sweetly flows,
That calms the rage that fiercest glows;
And hence the smile receives its rise,
That opes the gate to paradise.

White as the pride of drifted snows,
Her well-proportion'd bosom rose:
While as the gently-curling main
Swells to the breeze and sinks again,
Each lovely orb with softer swell,
More sweetly rose, more sweetly fell.
Ah, what transporting charms conceal'd
Might well be guess'd from those reveal'd.

STANZAS,

ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE BIRD.

BY W. HOLLOWAY.

THOUGH ne'er on the bough of the hedge-row or grove, Thou didst build the soft nest, or attune the sweet lay, Enjoy the fresh shade of the woodbine alcove,

Or rouse the dull swains, at the peep of young day,

Yet still hast thou 'scap'd all the shares of mankind,
The snares which on Innocence ever attend ;
For liberty lost thou hast never repin'd,

Hast never known want, nor e'er needed a friend. But ah! cruel Fate, with aim sudden and sure,

Has mark'd thee her victim, and laid thee to rest! For Lesbia's fam❜d bird not a tear flow'd more pure, Nor lighter the green sod repos'd on his breast. Farewell, little Warbler! To those who deplore, Would the Muse this suggestion prefer, and repeatFor the moral shall hold when the sorrow's no more

May your lives be as calm, and your exits as sweet!

PRO PATRIA MORI.

FROM THE GERMAN OF BURGER.

FOR virtue, freedom, human rights, to fall,
Beseems the brave: it is a Saviour's death!

Of heroes only the most pure of all

Thus with their heart's blood tinge the battle-heath.
And this proud death is seemliest in the man
Who for a kindred race, a country bleeds:
Three hundred Spartans form the shining van
Of those, whom fame in this high triumph leads.
Great is the death for a good prince incurr'd;
Who wields the sceptre with benignant hand:
Well may for him the noble bare his sword,
Falling he earns the blessings of a land.

Death for friend, parent, child, or her we love,
If not so great, is beauteous to behold:
This the fine tumults of the heart approve;
It is the walk to death unbought of gold.
But for mere majesty to meet a wound-
Who holds that great or glorious, he mistakes:
That is the fury of the pamper'd hound,
Which envy, anger, or the whip awakes.
And for a tyrant's sake to seek a jaunt
To hell-'s a death which only hell enjoys:
Where such a hero falls-the gibbet plant,
A murderer's trophy, and a plunderer's prize.