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النشر الإلكتروني

To Mr. OPIE,

On his having painted for me the piture of Mrs. Twiss.

Hail to thy pencik! well its glowing art
Has traced those features painted on my heart:
Now, tho' in distant scenes she soon will roves
Still shall I here behold the friend I love;
Still see that smile" endearings artless,, kind,"
The eye's mild beam that speaks the candid mind,
Which, sportive oft, yet fearful to offend,
By humour charms, but never wounds a friend.
But in my breast contending feelings.rise,
While this loy'd semblance fascinates my eyes;
Now pleas'dI mark the painter's skilfulline,
Now joy, because the skill I mark was thine :
And while I prize the gift by thee bestow'd,
My heart proclaims I'm of the giver proud.
Thus pride and friendship war with equal strife,
And now the FRIEND exults, and now the WIFE.

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AMELIA Opie, 1799.

Tbe
OAK

of our FATHERS.

Alas for the Oak of our Fathers that stood
In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood!

It grew and it fourish'd' for many an age,
And many à tempest wreak’d on it its rage,
But when its' strong branches were bent with the blast,
It struck its roots deeper and flourish'd more fast.

Its head tower'd high, and' its branches spread round,
For its robts were struck deep, and its heart it was sound;
The bees o'er its honey-dew'd foliage play'd,
And the beasts of the forest fed under its shade.

The Oak of our Fathers to Freedom was dear,
Its leaves were her crown, and its' wood was her spear.
Alas for the Oak of our Fathers that stood
In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood!

There crept up an ivy and clung round the trunk,
It struck in its mouths and its juices it drunk ;
The branches grew sickly deprived of their food,
And the Oak was no longer the pride of the woode

The foresters saw and they gather'd around,
Its roots still were fast, and its heart still was sound;
They lopt off the boughs that so beautiful spread,
But the ivy they spared on its vitals that fed.

No longer the bees o'er its honey-dews play'd,
Nor the beasts of the forest fed under its shade;
Lopt and mangled the trunk in its ruin is seen,
A monument now what its beauty has been.

The Oak has received its incurable wound
They have loosened the roots, tho’ the heart may be sound;
What the travellers at distance green-flourishing see,
Are the leaves of the ivy that ruined the tree.

Alas for the Oak of our Fathers that stood
In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood !

R. S.

TO A FRIEND,

Enquiring if I would live over my youth again..

Do I regret the past ?
Would I again live o'er

1 The morning hours of life?

Nay William nay, not so !
In the warm joyaunce of the summer sun

I do not wish again
The changeful April day.
Nay William nay, not so!
Safe haven'd from the sea
I would not tempt again

The uncertain ocean's wrath.
Praise be to him who made me what I am,

Other I would not be.

Why is it pleasant then to sit and talk

Of days that are no more?
When in his own dear home

The traveller rests at last,
And tells how often in his wanderings

The thought of those får off
Has made his

eyes

o'erflow With no unmanly tears ;

Delighted he recalls
Thro' what fair scenes his charmed feet have trod.
But ever when he tells of perils past,

And troubles now no more,
His eyes most sparkle, and a readier joy

Flows rapid to his heart.

No William no, I would not-live again

The morning hours of life,
I would not be again
The slave' of hope and fear,

I would not learn again
The wisdom by Experience hardly taught.

To me the past presents
No object for regret;
To me the present gives
All cause for full content ;-

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