[The following compliment was sent by Cowper to the Count Gravina, on his translating the above song into Italian verse:My Rose, Gravina, blooms anew,

And steep'd not now in rain,
But in Castalian streams by you,
Will never fade again.]

LORD GREGORY.

JOHN WOLCOT.

Born 1738-Died 1819.

"Ah ope, Lord Gregory, thy door,
A midnight wanderer sighs,
Hard rush the rains, the tempests roar,
And lightnings cleave the skies.

"Who comes with woe at this drear night-
A pilgrim of the gloom?

If she whose love did once delight,
My cot shall yield her room.

"Alas! thou heard'st a pilgrim mourn,
That once was priz'd by thee:
Think of the ring by yonder burn
Thou gav'st to love and me.

"But should'st thou not poor Marian know,
I'll turn my feet and part;

And think the storms that round me blow,
Far kinder than thy heart."

[This song was written by the witty Peter Pindar for George Thomson's Collection of National Airs. The ballad called "The Lass of Lochroyan," printed in the Border Minstrelsy, [New Edition, vol. 3, p. 201,] but published before that incompletely in Herd's Scottish Songs, gave Wolcot the idea. Burns' ballad in imitation of it is well known. See Cunningham's Burns, vol. 5, p. 48.]

THE GYPSY.

JOHN WOLCOT.

A wandering Gypsy, Sir, am I,

From Norwood, where we oft complain,
With many a tear, and many a sigh,
Of blustering winds, and rushing rain :
No rooms so fine, and gay attire,
Amid our humble huts appear;
Nor beds of down, or blazing fire,
At night our shivering limbs to cheer.

Alas! no friends come near our cot,
The red-breasts only find the way;
Who give their all, a simple note,
At peep of dawn or parting day.
But fortunes here I come to tell,

Then yield me, gentle Sir, your hand;
Amid those lines what thousands dwell,
And, bless me! what a heap of land!

MARIAN'S COMPLAINT.

JOHN WOLCOT.

Since truth has left the shepherd's tongue,
Adieu the cheerful pipe and song;

Adieu the dance at closing day,
And, ah! the happy morn of May.

How oft he told me I was fair,
And wove the garland for my hair!
How oft for Marian cull'd the bower,
And fill'd my lap with every flower!

No more his gifts of guile I'll wear,
But from my brow the chaplet tear;
The crook he gave in pieces break,
And rend his ribbons from my neck.

How oft he vow'd a constant flame,
And carv'd on every oak my name!
Blush Colin that the wounded tree
Is all that will remember me.

INVITATION TO CYNTHIA.

JOHN WOLCOT.

Come, Cynthia to thy shepherd's vale,
Though tyrant winter shade the same;
The leafless grove has felt his gale,
And every warbler mourns his reign.

Yet what to me the howling wind?
Thy voice the Linnet's song supplies,
Or what the cloud to me who find
Eternal sunshine in thine eyes:

WHEN FIRST UPON YOUR TENDER CHEEK.

MRS. BARBAULD.

Born 1743-Died 1825.

When first upon your tender cheek
I saw the morn of beauty break
With mild and cheering beam,
I bow'd before your infant shrine,
The earliest sighs you had were mine,
And you my darling theme.

I saw you in that opening morn
For beauty's boundless empire born,
And first confess'd your sway;
And ere your thoughts devoid of art,
Could learn the value of a heart,
I gave my heart away.

I watch'd the dawn of every grace,
And gaz'd upon that angel face,

While yet 'twas safe to gaze;
And fondly bless'd each rising charm,
Nor thought such innocence could harm
The peace of future days.

But now despotic o'er the plains
The awful noon of beauty reigns,
And kneeling crowds adore;

These charms arise too fiercely bright,
Danger and death attend the sight,

And I must hope no more.

Thus to the rising god of day
Their early vows the Persians pay,
And bless the spreading fire;

Whose glowing chariot mounting soon
Pours on their heads the burning noon,
They sicken and expire.

WHEN FIRST, I SAW THEE GRACEFUL MOVE.

When first I saw thee graceful move,

Ah me! what meant my throbbing breast? Say, soft confusion, art thou love?

If love thou art, then farewell rest!

Since doom'd I am to love thee, fair,
Though hopeless of a warm return,
Yet kill me not with cold despair;

But let me live, and let me burn.

With gentle smiles assuage the pain
Those gentle smiles did first create :
And, though you cannot love again→
In pity! oh forbear to hate.

VOL. I.