But while my breast one feeling throb supplies, And while one pitying drop these lids contain, Oh! sceptred Grief, a sigh for thee shall rise, And a tear trickle on thy golden chain.

Lord of all life! Fountain of good and ill!

If thorniest paths must guide me to my bier, My neck shall humbly bow beneath thy will,

Nor one proud murmur term that will severe.

With aches and anguish rack each quivering limb, Crush this poor frame, and rob these orbs of

sight;

Bid Slander's breath my fame's pure mirror dim, And freezing Want Hope's lovely harvest blight;

Make me, of all who drink heaven's vital air, The poorest, lowliest, vilest, saddest thing!My load of griefs with patience still I'll bear, And thank my God I was not born a king!

M. G. LEWIS.

WRITTEN AT

VALE ROYAL ABBEY* IN CHESHIRE.

As evening slowly spreads his mantle hoar,
No ruder sounds the bounded valley fill
Than the faint din, from yonder sedgy shore,
Of rushing waters and the murmuring mill.

A monastery for Cistercian Monks, founded by King Edward I. about the year 1300, in consequence of a vow which he made when in danger of being shipwrecked during his return from a crusade.

How sunk the scene where cloister'd Leisure

mused!

Where war-worn Edward paid his awful vow; And, lavish of magnificence, diffused [brow! His crowded spires o'er the broad mountain's The golden fans, that o'er the turrets strown, Quick-glancing to the sun, wild music made, Are reft, and every battlement o'ergrown

With knotted thorns and the tall sapling's shade. The prickly thistle sheds its plumy crest,

And matted nettles shade the crumbling mass, Where shone the pavement's surface smooth, impress'd

With rich reflection of the storied glass.

Here hardy chieftains slept in proud repose,
Sublimely shrined in gorgeous imagery;
And through the lessening aisles, in radiant rows,
Their consecrated banners hung on high.

There oxen browse, and there the sable yew Through the dun void displays its baleful glooms;

And sheds in lingering drops ungenial dew
O'er the forgotten graves and scatter'd tombs.
By the slow clock, in stately measured chime,
That from the massy tower tremendous toll'd,
No more the ploughman counts the tedious time,
Nor distant shepherd pens his twilight fold.
High o'er the trackless heath at midnight seen,
No more the windows, ranged in long array
(Where the tall shaft and fretted nook between

Thick ivy twines), the taper'd rites betray.

E'en now, amid the wavering ivy wreaths (While kindred thoughts the pensive sounds inspire),

When the weak breeze in many a whisper breathes,
I seem to listen to the chanting quire.

As o'er these shatter'd towers intent we muse,
Though rear'd by Charity's capricious zeal,
Yet can our breasts soft Pity's sigh refuse,
Or conscious Candour's modest plea conceal?

For though the sorceress, Superstition blind,
Amid the pomp of dreadful sacrifice,
O'er the dim roofs, to cheat the tranced mind,
Oft bade her visionary gleams arise;

Though the vain hours unsocial Sloth beguiled,
While the still cloister's gate Oblivion lock'd ;
And through the chambers pale, to slumbers mild
Wan Indolence her drowsy cradle rock'd;

Yet hence, enthroned in venerable state,
Proud Hospitality dispensed her store:
Ah, see, beneath yon tower's unvaulted gate,
Forlorn she sits upon the brambled floor!

Her ponderous vase, with gothic portraiture
Emboss'd, no more with balmy moisture flows;
Mid the mix'd shards o'erwhelm'd in dust obscure,
No more, as erst, the golden goblet glows.

Sore beat by storms in glory's arduous way,
Here might Ambition muse, a pilgrim sage;
Here raptured see Religion's evening ray
Gild the calm walks of his reposing age.

VOL. IV.

X

Here ancient Art her dædal fancies play'd
In the quaint mazes of the crisped roof;
In mellow glooms the speaking pane array'd,
And ranged the cluster'd column, massy proof.
Here Learning, guarded from a barbarous age,
Hover'd a while, nor dared attempt the day;
But patient traced upon the pictured page
The holy legend or heroic lay.

Hither the solitary minstrel came,

An honour'd guest, while the grim evening sky Hung louring, and around the social flame Tuned his bold harp to tales of chivalry. Thus sings the Muse, all pensive and alone; Nor scorns, within the deep fane's inmost cell, To pluck the gray moss from the mantled stone, Some holy founder's mouldering name to spell. Thus sings the Muse ;—yet, partial as she sings, With fond regret surveys these ruin'd piles: And with fair images of ancient things

The captive bard's obsequious mind beguiles. But much we pardon to the' ingenuous Muse; Her fairy shapes are trick'd by Fancy's pen: Severer Reason forms far other views,

And scans the scene with philosophic ken. From these deserted domes new glories rise; More useful institutes, adorning man, Manners enlarged, and new civilities,

On fresh foundations build the social plan. Science an ampler plume, a bolder flight Essays, escaped from Superstition's shrine; While freed Religion, like primeval light Bursting from chaos, spreads her warmth divine.

T. WARTON.

HE DESCRIBES HIS VISION TO AN ACQUAINTANCE.

Cætera per terras omnes animalia, &c.

All animals beside, o'er all the earth, &c.

Virg.

ON distant heaths, beneath autumnal skies,
Pensive I saw the circling shade descend;
Weary and faint I heard the storm arise,
While the Sun vanish'd like a faithless friend.

No kind companion led my steps aright;

No friendly planet lent its glimmering ray; E'en the lone cot refused its wonted light, Where Toil in peaceful slumber closed the day. Then the dull bell had given a pleasing sound, The village cur 'twere transport then to hear; In dreadful silence all was hush'd around,

While the rude storm alone distress'd mine ear.

As led by Orwell's winding banks I stray'd, Where towering Wolsey breathed his native air, A sudden lustre chased the flitting shade,

The sounding winds were hush'd, and all was fair.

Instant a graceful form appear'd confess'd; White were his locks, with awful scarlet crown'd; And livelier far than Tyrian seem'd his vest,

That with the glowing purple tinged the ground,