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The soul springs instant at the warm design,
And the heart dictates every flowing line.
See! where the kindest, best of mothers lies,
And death has shut her ever-weeping eyes;
Has lodg’d at last peace in her weary breast,
And lull'd her many piercing cares to rest.
No more the orphan train around her stands,
While her full heart upbraids her needy hands!
No more the widow's lonely fate she feels,
The shock severe that modest want conceals,
The'oppressor's scourge, the scorn of wealthy pride,
And poverty's unnumber'd ills beside.
For see! attended by the angelic throng,
Through yonder worlds of light she glides along,
And claims the well-earn'd raptures of the sky :-
Yet fond concern recalls the mother's eye;
She seeks the helpless orphans left behind ;
So hardly left! so bitterly resign'd!.
Still, still! is she my soul's divinest theme,
The waking vision, and the wailing dream:
Amid the ruddy sun's enlivening blaze
O'er my dark eyes her dewy image plays,
And in the dread dominion of the night
Shines out again the sadly pleasing sight.
Triumphant virtue all around her darts,
And more than volumes every look imparts-
Looks, soft, yet awful, melting, yet serene,
Where both the mother and the saint are seen.
But ah ! that night-that torturing night remains;
May darkness dye it with the deepest stains,
May joy on it forsake her rosy tow'rs,
And screaming sorrow blast its baleful hours,
When on the margin of the briny flood
Chill'd with a sad presaging damp I stood,
Took the last look, ne'er to behold her more,
And mix'd our murmurs with the wavy roar,
Heard the last words fall from her pious tongue,
Then, wild into the bulging vessel flung,
Which soon, too soon convey'd me from her sight
Dearer than life, and liberty and light !
Why was I then, ye powers, reserv'd for this?
Nor sunk that moment in the vast abyss ?
Devour'd at once by the relentless wave,
And whelm'd for ever in a wat'ry grave ?
Down, ye wild wishes of unruly woe!-
I see her with immortal beauty glow,
The early wrinkle, care-contracted, gone,
Her tears all wipe'd, and all her sorrows flown ;
The' exalted voice of Heav'n I hear her breathe,
To soothe her soul in agonies of death.
I see her through the mansions blest above,
And now she meets her dear expecting Love.
Heart-cheering sight! but yet, alas ! o'erspread
By the damp gloom of Grief's uncheerful shade.
Come then of reason the reflecting hour,
And let me trust the kind o'er-ruling Power,
Who from the right commands the shining day,
The poor man's portion, and the orphan's stay !
PHEBE. A PASTORAL. Mutime, o ye Muses! was happily spent,
When Phæbe went with me wherever I went: Ten thousand soft pleasures I felt in my breast: Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest. But now she is gone, and has left me behind, What a marvellous change on a sudden I find! When things were as fine as could possible be, I thought it was Spring; but, alas ! it was she.
The fountain that wont to run sweetly along, And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among, Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phæbe was there, It was pleasant to look at, 'twas music to hear. But, now she is absent, I walk by its side, And, still as it murmurs, do nothing but chide : Must you be so cheerful, whilst I go in pain ? Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me com
plain. My dog I was ever well pleased to see Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me; And Phæbe was pleas'd too, and to my dog said, Come hither, poor fellow;' and patted his head. But now, when he's fawning, I with a sour look Cry, 'Sirrah,' and give him a blow with my crook : And I'll give him another; for why should not Tray Be dull as his master, when Phæbe's away?
Sweet music went with us both all the wood thro', The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale too; Winds over us whisper'd, flocks by us did bleat, And chirp went the grasshopper under our feet. But now she is absent, though still they sing on, The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone : Her voice in the concert, as now I have found, Gives every thing else its agreeable sound.
Will no pitying power that hears me complain, Or cure my disquiet, or soften my pain? To be cur'd, thou must, Colin, thy passion remove: But what swain is so silly to live without love? No, Deity, bid the dear nymph to return; For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn. Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with despair : Take heed, all ye swains, how ye love one so fair.
Mark it, Cesario, it is true and plain ;
The spinsters and the knitters in the sun,
And the free maids that weave their thread with bones,
Do use to cbant it: it is silly sooth,
And dallies with the innocence of love,
Like the old age.
Shaksp. Twelfth Night.
in the windings of a vale,
Fast by a shelteriog wood,
The safe retreat of Health and Peace,
An humble cottage stood :
There beauteous Emma flourish'd fair
Beneath a mother's eye,
Whose only wish on earth was now
To see her bless'd and die.
The softest blush that Nature spreads,
Gave colour to her cheek ;
Such orient colour smiles through Heav'n
When vernal mornings break.
Nor let the pride of great ones scorn
This charmer of the plains;
That sun which bids their diamond blaze
To paint our lily deigns.
Long had she filld each youth with love,
Each maiden with despair,
And though by all a wonder own'd,
Yet knew not she was fair ;
Till Edwin came, the pride of swains !
A soul devoid of art,
And from whose eyes, serenely mild,
Shone forth the feeling heart.