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Where from the gothic casement's height,

We viewed the lake, the park, the dale, And still, though tears obstruct our sight,

We lingering look a last farewell.

O'er fields through which we used to run,

And spend the hours in childish play; O'er shades where, when our race was done,

Reposing on my breast you lay;

While I, admiring, too remiss,

Forgot to scare the hovering flies, Yet envied every fly the kiss

It dared to give your slumbering eyes:

See still the little painted bark,

In which I rowed you o'er the lake; See there, high waving o'er the park,

The elm I clambered for your sake.

These times are past our joys are gone,

You leave me, leave this happy vale ; These scenes I must retrace alone;

Without thee what will they avail ?

Who can conceive, who has not proved,

The anguish of a last embrace ? When, torn from all you fondly loved,

You bid a long adieu to peace.

This is the deepest of our woes,

For this these tears our cheeks bedew; This is of love the final close,

Oh, God, the fondest, last adieu !

ON THE DEATH OF MR. FOX.

THE FOLLOWING ILLIBERAL IMPROMPTU APPEARED IN A

MORNING PAPER:

“Our nation's foes lament on Fox's death,
But bless the hour when Pitt resigned his breath:
These feelings wide, let sense and truth unclue,
We give the palm where Justice points its due.”

TO WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THESE PIECES

SENT THE FOLLOWING REPLY:

Oh, factious viper! whose envenomed tooth
Would mangle still the dead, perverting truth,
What though our nation's foes” lament the fate,
With generous feeling, of the good and great,
Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name
Of him whose meed exists in endless fame?
When Pitt expired in plentitude of power,
Though ill success obscured his dying hour,
Pity her dewy wings before him spread,
For noble spirits “war not with the dead:”
His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gave,
As all his errors slumbered in the grave;
He sunk, an Atlas bending 'neath the weight
Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state :
When lo! a Hercules in Fox appeared,
Who for a time the ruined fabric reared:

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He, too, is fallen, who Britain's loss supplied,
With him our fast-reviving hopes have died ;
Not one great people only raise his urn,
All Europe's far-extended regions mourn.
“These feelings wide, let sense and truth unclue,
To give the palm where Justice points its due ;”
Yet let not cankered Calumny assail,
Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil.
Fox! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep,
Whose dear remains in honored marble sleep:
For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan,
While friends and foes alike his talents own;
Fox shall in Britain's future annals shine,
Nor e'en to Pitt the patriot's palm resign;
Which Envy, wearing Candor's sacred mask,
For Pitt, and Pitt alone, has dared to ask.

THE CORNELIAN.

No specious splendor of this stone

Endears it to my memory ever;
With lustre only once it shone,

And blushes modest as the giver.

Some, who can sneer at friendship’s ties,

Have for my weakness oft reproved me;
Yet still the simple gift I prize, -

For I am sure the giver loved me.

He offered it with downcast look,

As fearful that I might refuse it: I told him when the gift I took,

My only fear should be to lose it.

This pledge attentively I viewed,

And sparkling as I held it near, Methought one drop the stone bedewed,

And ever since I've loved a tear.

Still, to adorn his humble youth,

Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield; But he who seeks the flowers of truth,

Must quit the garden for the field.

'Tis not the plant upreared in sloth,

Which beauty shows, and sheds perfume; The flowers which yield the most of both

In Nature's wild luxuriance bloom.

Had Fortune aided Nature's care,

For once forgetting to be blind,
His would have been an ample share,

If well-proportioned to his mind.

But had the goddess clearly seen,

His form had fixed her fickle breast; Her countless hoards would his have been,

And none remained to give the rest.

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When I hear you express an affection so warm,

Ne'er think, my beloved, that I do not believe; For your lip would the soul of suspicion disarm,

And your eye beams a ray which can never deceive.

Yet still, this fond bosom regrets while adoring,

That love, like the leaf, must fall into the sear,
That age will come on, when remembrance, deploring,

Contemplates the scenes of her youth with a tear;

That the time must arrive, when, no longer retaining

Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to the breeze, When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining,

Prove nature a prey to decay and disease.

'Tis this, my beloved, which spreads gloom o'er my

features, Though I ne'er shall presume to arraign the decree Which God has proclaimed as the fate of his creatures,

In the death which one day will deprive you of me.

Mistake not, sweet sceptic, the cause of emotion,

No doubt can the mind of your lover invade;
He worships each look with such faithful devotion,

A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade.

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