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النشر الإلكتروني

He died and was buried the green hillock nigh,

That rose by the side of the Cot.

Then the Youth for some unknown delight heaved a sigh,
The forest's wild beauties no more pleased his eye,
And the counsel of age was forgot.

'Tis said, the next morn he arose with the day,
To seek where the vision he spied :

No more in these deserts, he cry'd, will I stay,
But will seek at all risk, tho' my father said nay,
The fairies that haunt the wood side.

The BATTLE of PULTOWA.

On Vorskas glittering waves
The morning sun-beams play;
PULTOWA'S walls are throng'd
With eager multitudes,
-Athwart the dusty vále

They strain their aching eyes,
Where to the fight he moves
The Conqueror Charles, the iron-hearted Swede.

Him Famine hath not tamed

The tamer of the brave;

Him Winter hath not quell'd,

When man by man his veteran troops sunk down,

Frozen to their endless sleep,

He held undaunted on;

Him Pain hath not subdued,

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What tho' he mounts not now
The fiery steed of war,
Borne on a litter to the fight he goes.

Go iron-hearted King!

Full of thy former fame.

Think how the humbled Dane
Crouch'd to thy victor sword;

Think how the wretched Pole
Resign'd his conquer'd crown; *
Go iron-hearted King!

Let Narva's glory swell thy haughty breast

The death-day of thy glory Charles, hath dawn'd, Proud Swede, the Sun hath risen

That on thy shame shall set!

Now bend thine head from heaven,

Now Patkul be revenged!

For o'er that bloody Swede
Ruin hath rais'd his arm-i
For ere the night descends
His veteran host subdued,

His laurels blasted to revive no more
He flies before the foe!

Long years of hope deceived

That conquered Swede must prove,
Patkul thou art avenged!

Long years of idleness

That restless soul must bear,
Patkul thou art avenged!

The Despot's savage anger took thy life,
Thy death has stabb'd his fame.

ERTHUSYO.

LINES

TO A BROTHER AND SISTER,

Written soon after a Recovery from Sickness.

By CHARLES LLOYD.

I.

"Tis surely hard the melancholy day

To waste without the cheering voice of friend, To see the morning dart its golden ray,

To see the night in misty dews descend,

Nor catch one sound where Love and Meekness blend; 'Tis surely hard for him who knows how dear

A kindred soul, eternally to send

A fruitless prayer for smiles and words that cheer, The wish in looks revealed and rapture's holy tear,

II.

Him whom the spirit of Attachment warms,
The nameless thrilling and the soft desire,
Him whom the glance of melting beauty charms,
Its young allurement and its living fire;

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