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As each, by childish fancy led,

Cropp'd the broad daisies as they sprung; Lay stretch'd along the verdant bed,

And sweetly ply'd the lisping tongue;

Lo! from the spray-deserted steep,

Where either way the twigs divide, The one rolld headlong to the deep,

And plung'd beneath the closing tide:

The other saw; and, from the land,

(While nature imag'd strange distress) Stretch'd o'er the brink his little hand,

The fruitless signal of redress !

The offer'd pledge without delay

The struggling victim rose and caught ; But, ah! in vain—their fatal way,

They both descended quick as thought.

Short was the wave-oppressing space;

Convuls'd with pain too sharp to bear, Their lives dissolv'd in one embrace,

Their mingled souls flew up in air.

Lo! there yon time-worn sculpture shews

The sad, the melancholy truth ; What pangs the tortur'd parent knows!

What snares await defenceless youth !

Here, not to sympathy unknown,

Full oft the sad muse wand'ring near,
Bends silent o'er the mossy stone,
And wets it with a willing tear.

Gerrard.

THE KNIGHTHOOD OF SIR LOIN.

As once returning from the chase,

The second Charles, the merry king, The glories of whose sacred race

The muse shall ever love to sing :

Now wearied with the sport he lov'd,

And faint with toil, and faint with heat, Dejected look'd, and slowly mov'd,

And long'd to rest, and long'd to eat.

Sudden before his wond'ring eyes

A banquet unexpected stood;
The monarch gaz'd with glad surprize,

And ’gan to taste the welcome food.

Proud of his lov’d, his royal guest,

The noble host, a gallant lord,
With various dainties grac'd his feast,

And gay profusion crown’d the board.

But high above the rest appear’d

The hungry Briton's old relief, Its mighty bulk exulting rear’d,

The yet unhonour'd Loin of Beef.

With ravish'd eye the king beheld,

Eat'as he ne'er had eat before; Too soon the rage of hunger quelld,

And griev'd that he could eat no more.

But soon, with mighty spirits gay,

Such as from Beef alone could spring, The mighty pleasure to repay,

Aloud proclaim'd th' enraptur’d king:

« Be thou for ever lor'd, and great,

As my delight, be thy just fame; Thy praises ev'ry tongue repeat,

And Sir eternal grace thy name."

He said, and drew the royal sword,

Th' applauding crowd uprose around,
Sir Loin! with acclamation roar'd,
And distant echoes catch the sound.

British Magazine.

TO A LADY

Who desired the author to think of her.

Pleas'd I obey, and in thy face
Recount each beauty, ev'ry grace,

That glads the captive eye;
But most o'er brighter charms I rove,
Which grow with time-inspiring love,

When those shall fade and die.

Yet

say, is't not enough, my dear, To be entrapp'd in Cupid's snare ?

But you must triumph too: Pomona saw Vertumnus bleed; In the same history we read,

She fell a victim too.

You bid me think of you, alas !
Think you how dull the hours pass,

Confind to thought alone;
Far happier would the minutes fly,
In mirthful sweet society,
Which constitutes your own.

ODE ON THE MOON.

O thou, fair sister of the sun!

Pale empress of the night!
Who, seated on thy silver throne,

Art cloth’d in lambent light!

'Tis thine, bright Cynthia, to dispense

Those laws the floods obey;
The hoary deep, untract immense!

Obedient owns thy sway.

When sinks the day's bright orb to rest,

And bathes in western streams, Serenely rising up the east,

We hail thy milder beams.

When silent night her deep'ning shades

Q’er slumb’ring nature spreads, Thy gentle ray the gloom pervades,

And peerless glory sheds.

But, O, fair planet ! 'midst thy reign

Still night her mists will raise, A sable dusk that veils the plain,

And mocks thy brightest rays.

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