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Vainly to him this faithful heart appealing, Whịch passion's tenderest truest flame still warms,

[feeling, Urges those oft pledged vows, each generous

Though now forgot—which gave me to his arms. How can he thus forego the soft relations

That bind with mutual ties his soul to me; How can he lose those ever dear sensations

Which swell to rapture as I gaze on thee? Oft o'er thy lovely form while pensive musing,

His smile, his features with delight I trace; Each pensive thought in melting fondness losing,

I clasp his image in my child's embrace. 0, may that Power who hears my sad lamenting,

And guards my nursling with a parent's eye ; Restore his heart, at Nature's voice relenting,

To Faith's firm bands, and Love's forgiving sigh. eep on, dear babe! no thoughts like these op

press thee, Mild Innocence thy peaceful temples crowns ; No anxious doubts, no keen regrets distress thee,

No brooding care around thy cradle frowns. Those tranquil looks suspend a mother's anguish,

Those artless smiles her drooping heart sustain; Victim of broken vows though doom'd to languish, She lives in thee to peace and hope again.

MARIA RIDDELL.

ELEGY.

· DARK gathering clouds involve the threatening

skies, The sea heaves conscious of the’impending gloom; Deep hollow murmurs from the cliffs arise ;

They come!—the Spirits of the Tempest come! • Oh! may such terrors mark the approaching

night As reign'd on that these streaming eyes deplore! Flash, ye red fires of heaven! with fatal light;

And with conflicting winds, ye waters ! roar. • Loud, and more loud, ye foaming billows! burst;

Ye warring elements! more fiercely rave, Till the wide waves o’erwhelm the spot accursed

Where ruthless Avarice finds a quiet grave! Thus with clasp'd hands, wild looks, and streaming hair,

[speech, While shrieks of horror broke her trembling A wretched maid—the victim of Despair,

Survey'd the threatening storm and desert beach: Then to the tomb where now the father slept

Whose rugged nature bade her sorrows flow, Frantic she turn'd—and beat her breast and wept,

Invoking vengeance on the dust below. • Lo! rising there above each humbler heap,

Yon cipher'd stones his name and wealth relate, Who gave his son-remorseless—to the deep,

While I, his living victim, curse my fate.

• O! my lost love! no tomb is placed for thee,

That may to strangers' eyes thy worth impart! Thou hast no grave but in the stormy sea !

And no memorial but this breaking heart! Forth to the world, a widow'd wanderer driven,

I pour to winds and waves the’ unheeded tear, Try with vain effort to submit to Heaven,

And fruitless call on him," who cannot hear.” "Oh! might I fondly clasp him once again,

While o'er my head the infuriate billows pour, Forget in death this agonizing pain,

And feel his father's cruelty no more! * Part, raging waters! part, and show beneath,

In your dread caves, his pale and mangled form; Now, while the demons of Despair and Death

Ride on the blast, and urge the howling storm! • Lo! by the lightning's momentary blaze,

I see him rise the whitening waves above, No longer such as when in happier days

He gave the enchanted hours—to me and love. • Such, as when daring the enchafed sea

And courting dangerous toil, he often said That every peril, one soft smile from me,

One sigh of speechless tenderness o'erpaid. But dead, disfigured, while between the roar

Of the loud waves his accents pierce mine ear, And seem to say-Ah, wretch! delay no more,

But come, unhappy mourner!-meet me here. • Yet, powerful Fancy! bid the phantom stay,

Still let me hear him!—'Tis already pass’d ! Along the waves bis shadow dies away,

I lose his voice amid the deafening blast!

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"Ah! wild Illusion, born of frantic Pain !

He hears not, comes not from his watery bed! My tears, my anguish, my despair are vain,

The' insatiate ocean gives not up its dead! "'Tis not his voice!-Hark! the deep thunders roll!

Upheaves the ground—the rocky barriers fail ! Approach, ye horrors that delight my soul!

Despair and Death and Desolation, hail! The Ocean hears—the' embodied waters come

Rise o'er the land, and with resistless sweep Tear from its base the proud aggressor's tomb, And bear the injured to eternal sleep!

CHARLOTTE SMITH.

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THE FATE OF KINGS.

WRITTEN ON VISITING A ROYAL MAUSOLEUM.

Then happy low lie down !
Uneasy rests the head that wears a crown.

Shakspeare.

Peace to these aisles, through which I pensive stray,
And press with reverent feet the time-worn

stones,
Led by yon glimmering lamp's sepulchral ray,
Which marks the spot where rest a monarch's

bones.
Languid and cold, to light, but not to cheer,

Falls the faint gleam upon the tomb below,
Like Pity's voice on some lone widow's ear,

Mocking the majesty of buried Woe!

Here will I pause, our pious requiem pour,

And greet his exit from Life's tragic stage; Nor ask what name the' exalted sufferer bore,

Nor how 'tis blazon'd on the historic page. Whether in Valour's lists he vainly toil'd,

Or conquest clasp'd him with her crimson hand; Whether tyrannic Pride his purple soild,

Or patriot subjects loved his mild command ; Whether, fair Peace, he held thy olive dear, Or stretch'd his power o'er many a bleeding

state; Whate'er his deeds, his station claims a tear;

Whate'er his faults, his griefs were sure as great. Treason's chief victim, Policy's prime tool,

Fear'd by the weak, derided by the strong, Jest of the stoic, envy of the fool, When right the nation's slave, the nation's

curse when wrong; His crown, a burning brand which sears his brain;

His power, a bubble the next hour may burst; His life a glittering web of pomp and pain,

Gorgeously wretched, and supremely cursed; Of all their lots whose threads the sisters spin

None sadder than a king's Reflection views : Life shows him nothing he can wish to win,

And bids him only breathe to fear and lose ! Low in the heavens may sink his star of Fate,

But ne'er can hope in loftier course to move: His couch may shine the burning throne of Hate,

But ne'er can bloom the roseate bower of Love. VOL. IV.

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