For such I scatter sweets around, I dress with roses yonder brake; Come then, ye justly-favour'd few, These beauteous scenes were form'd for Repose ye in my fairy bowers, you: And taste the stream, and press the flowers; Gay dreams, by liveliest fancy dress'd, Mrs. Hughes. JULIA. A BALLAD. To the graves where sleepe the deade "Softe and safe, tho' lowly grave, Fast o'er thee my teares shall flowe; Only hope the hapless have, Shall thy hallow'd turfe pervade; Lighted by the moon's pale shine, See me, to thy mem❜ry true, Lowlye bending at thy shrine, Many a votive flow're to strewe. But how little do these flow'res Prove my love and constancye! Yet a few sad fleeting houres, And, deare youthe, I'll follow thee. "Rose, replete with scent and hue, Sweetest flow're that nature blowes, Damon flourish'd once like you; Nowe o'er him the greene grass grows. Rose, go deck his hallow'd grave, Lily, o'er the greene turfe twine; Honour meete that turfe should have, Beauty's bed, and virtue's shrine. "Primrose pale, and vi'let blue, Jasmine sweete, and eglantine, Nightly here thy sweetes I strewe, Proud to decke my true love's shrine. Like you, my Damon bloom'd a daye, He did die, and so must youBut such charmes can you displaye, Half so virtuous, half so true? "No, sweete flow'rets, no such charmes, No such virtues can you boaste; Yet hee's torn from my fond armes, (Loit'ring moments faster flowe,) When with him I'll tread the skies, Smile at deathe, and laugh at woe." Thus she sang, and strew'd the flow're, On the greene turfe grave shee dy’d. Sung her knell, while breezes sigh'd: Haughty grandeur heard with scorne, How so poor a mayden dy'd. Maty's Review. PETHERTON BRIDGE.* AN ELEGY. Inscribed to the Reverend Mr. Bean. OBEAN! whose fond connubial days But not o'er bright Aönian plains *Tradition says, that the catastrophe alluded to in this Elegy, happened about two centuries ago; of which the sculpture was yet to be seen at Petherton Bridge, in Somersetshire. The wedded pair for children pray; They come fair blessings from the skies; What raptures gild the halcyon day! What joys in distant prospect rise! But, ah! enamour'd as they view Had sad disaster ne'er ensnar'd The soft, the innocent, and young, The tender muse had gladly spar'd The little heroes of her song. Se'est thou the limpid current glide From Petherton it takes its name, From whence two smiling infants stray'd: Led by the stream, they hither came, And on the flow'ry margin play'd. Sweet victims! must your short-liv'd day That glimmer'd o'er your wat'ry grave? |