صور الصفحة
PDF
النشر الإلكتروني

And peace and hope are strangers to my breaft?
My limbs, late active and alert, refift

The dictates of my will, and, trembling, scarce
Have pow'r to bear from earth my tott'ring frame.

Oh! what an effort did I lately make,
When, with diftrefs o'erwhelm'd, and anguish keen,
I gain'd th' afcent, where refled what remain'd
Of her I lov'd-a folemn filence reign'd,

And gloomy darkness mark'd the cheerless spot;
Save through a crevice one fmall ftreaming ray,
Which glimm'ring fhone to guide me to her bed.
There once again, and once, alas! for all,
With weeping eyes, I view'd that face and form,
On which, with rapture, oft I us'd to gaze;
That face and form which spoke a graceful ease,
Sweet innocence and peace, and all those charms
Of female foftness, tenderness, and truth,
Which please the eye and captivate the foul.

But now, alas! how chang'd! What ruin dire Hath in fhort time been wrought! The tyrant death Struck and fubdu'd his prey; her tender frame Refistance weak could make, and down she funk Infenfible-a victim to his pow'r.

Her pallid cheeks had loft that glow of health
They late and long had worn-clos'd were those eyes
That us'd fo fweet to fmile; ftill was that voice
Which oft melodious charm'd the lift'ning ears;
But it will charm no more, nor will her smiles
Relieve that heart that lov'd with fond excess.

How much from this fad lofs I have endur'd,
Ye only, who have lov'd like me, can say.
Could fighs, or tears, or pray'rs, have aught avail'd,
She furely had not dy'd-for never did

They ceafe, e'er fince the time fhe felt a pain;
Profufely have the tears of forrow flow'd,

Sighs have fucceeded fighs, and pray'rs to Heav'n

Been breath'd-but God, who life bestow'd, faw fit
Her ftate to change, and took her to himself.
In her, religion wore its fairest form,
And all the milder virtues were display'd;
Good was her heart, and she was fit for blifs.

Oh, can I e'er forget, when from the world Retir'd, in converfe fweet our days we pafs'd! How oft to Heav'n fhe pray'd, to make me bleft! And grateful prais'd, and thank'd me for my love, My conftant care, and mark'd attentions shown, All from the heart beftow'd, to fmooth her path, To guard her steps, and make her pleas'd with life.

No pleafing cares do now my mind employ; In mournful mufing creep the heavy hours; Scenes of past pleasure, ne'er to be renew'd, By mem'ry's aid, in quick fucceffion rife, Whilst all the future wears an aspect dark.

Perhaps the knows how dear her mem'ry is, How in my heart she holds her wonted place: May heav'n in mercy grant, that, when from earth I'm call'd, we may united be, and know

Thofe promis'd joys which God referves for those Who truft his word, and ftrive to do his will.

O'E

MY NATIVE HOME.

BY MRS. ROBINSON.

'ER breezy hill or woodland glade,
At morning's dawn or closing day,
In fummer's flaunting pomp array'd,
Or penfive moonlight's filver grey,
The wretch in fadnefs ftill fhall roam,
Who wanders from his Native Home.
While, at the foot of fome old tree,
As meditation foothes his mind,
Lull'd by the hum of wand'ring bee,
Or rippling ftream, or whifp'ring wind,
His vagrant fancy fill fhall roam,
And lead him to his Native Home.

Though Love a fragrant couch may weave,
And Fortune heap the feftive board,
Still Mem'ry oft would turn to grieve,
And Reafon fcorn the fplendid hoard.

While he beneath the proudeft dome,
Would languifh for his Native Home.
To him the rufhy roof is dear,

And sweetly calm the darkest glen:
While Pomp, and Pride, and Pow'r appear,
At beft the glitt'ring plagues of men;
Unfought by those that never roam,
Forgetful of their Native Home.

Let me to fummer fhades retire,
With Meditation and the Muse!
Or round the focial winter fire,
The glow of temper'd mirth diffuse;
Though winds may howl and waters foam,
I ftill fhall blefs my Native Home.

And, oh! when Youth's extatic hour,
And Paffion's glowing noon are paft;
Should Age behold the tempeft low'r,
And Sorrow blow its keenest blast;

My fhade, no longer doom'd to roam,
Shall find the Grave a peaceful Home.

A WAR POEM.

On the late Mr. BLYTHE, a Midshipman on board the Mars

HARK! how the Church-bells' thund'ring barmony.
Stuns the glad ear!-Tidings of Joy have come-
Good tidings of great joy !-Two gallant fhips
Met on the element-they met-they fought
A defp'rate fight!-Good tidings of great joy!
They fought a defp'rate fight-The English guns
Plough'd up the hoftile deck-they shatter'd her-
Old England triumph'd!-Yet another day
Of glory for the Ruler of the Waves.

For those who fell-'twas in their country's cause,
They have their paffing paragraphs of praise,
And are forgotten.

There was one who dy’d

In that day's glory, whose obscurer name
No proud hiftorian's page will chronicle.

Peace to his honeft foul !-I read his name-
'Twas in the lift of flaughter;--and bless'd God
The found was not familiar to mine ear.

But it was told me after, that this man
Was one whom lawful violence had forc'd
From his own home, and wife, and little ones,
Who by his labour liv'd ;-that he was one
Whofe uncorrupted heart could keenly feel
A hufband's love-a father's anxioufness;
That from the wages of his toil he fed

The diftant dear ones; and would talk of them
At midnight, when he trod the filent deck
With him he valued:-talk of them, of joys
That he had known.-O God! and of the hour
When they fhould meet again, till his full heart,
His manly heart, at laft would overflow,
E'en like a child's, with very tenderness.
Peace to his honeft fpirit! Suddenly
It came, and merciful the ball of death,
For it came fuddenly, and shatter'd him,
And left no moment's agonizing thought
On thofe he lov'd fo well.

He ocean deep

Now lies at reft. Be Thou her comforter,

Who art the widow's friend; man does not know
What a cold fickness made her blood run back,
When first fhe heard the tidings of the fight:
Man does not know with what a dreadful hope
She liften'd to the names of those who dy'd:
Man does not know, or knowing, will not heed,
With what an agony of tenderness
She gaz'd upon her children, and beheld
His image who was gone. O God! be Thou
Her comforter, who art the widow's friend..

THE BRITISH

POETICAL MISCELLANY.

THE FOREST BOY.

BY CHARLOTTE SMITH.

ΤΗ

HE trees have now hid, at the edge of the hurst,
The spot where the ruins decay

Of the cottage, where Will of the Woodland was nurs❜d,
And liv'd fo belov'd, till the moment accurft
When he went from the Woodland away.

Among all the lads of the plough or the fold,
Beft efteem'd, by the fober and good,
Was Will of the Woodland; and often the old
Would tell of his frolics, for active and bold
Was William, the boy of the wood.

Yet gentle was he, as the breath of the May,
And when fick and declining was laid
The woodman, his father, young William away
Would go to the foreft to labour all day,
And perform his hard task in his ftead.

And when his poor father, the forefter dy'd,
And his mother was fad, and alone,

He toil'd from the dawn, and at ev'ning he hy'd,
In ftorm or in fnow, or whate'er might betide,
To fupply all her wants from the town.

One neighbour they had on the heath, to the west,
And no other the cottage was near,

But she would fend Phoebe, the child fhe lov'd beft,
To ftay with the widow, thus fad and diftreft,
Her hours of dejection to cheer.

As the buds of wild roses, the cheeks of the maid
Were just tinted with youth's lovely hue,

« السابقةمتابعة »