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“ O gentle Sire !” the infant said,
“ In pity take me to thy shed;
Nor fear deceit : a lonely child,
I wander o'er the gloomy wild.
Chill drops the rain, and not a ray
Illumes the drear and misty way!”
I hear the baby's tale of woe;
I hear the bitter night-winds blow;
And sighing for his piteous fate,
I trimm'd my lamp and op'd the gate.
'Twas Love! the little wand'ring sprite,
His pinion sparkled through the night!
I knew him by his bow and dart;
I knew him by my flutt'ring heart !
I take him in, and fondly raise
The dying embers' cheering blaze;
Press from his dank and clinging hair
The crystals of the freezing air,
And in my hand and bosom hold
His little fingers thrilling cold.
And now the embers' genial ray
Had warm'd his anxious fears away;

pray thee,” said the wanton child,
(My bosom trembled as he smild),
I
pray

thee let me try my bow, For through the rain I've wander'd so, That much I fear the ceaseless shower Has injur'd its elastic power.” The fatal bow the urchin drew; Swift from the string the arrow flew : Oh! swift it flew as glancing flame, And to my very soul it came ! • Fare thee well,” I heard him say, As laughing wild he wing'd away ; “ Fare thee well, for now I know The rain has not relax'd my bow; It still can send a madd’ning dart, As thou shalt own with all thy heart!"

DIRGE IN CYMBELINE.

COLLINS.

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each op'ning sweet of earliest bloom,

And rifle all the breathing Spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear

To vex with shrieks this quiet grove; But shepherd lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.

No wither'd witch shall here be seen,

No goblins lead their nightly crew; But female fays shall haunt the green,

And dress thy grave with pearly dew!

The redbreast oft at ev'ning hours

Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gather'd flowers,

To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds, and beating rain,

In tempests shake the sylvan cell; Or 'mid the chase on ev'ry plain,

The tender thought on thee shall dwell.

Each lonely scene shall thee restore,

For thee the tear be duly shed; Belov'd till life can charm no more,

And mourn'd till Pity's self be dead.

SONG FROM THE GERMAN.

JACOBI.

Tell me, where are the violets fled,

Those brilliant gems so gaily blowing, In Flora's path profusely spread,

And ʼmidst her varied beauties glowing?

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Fond youth, how could the spring-time last ?

Vain hope, to find her sweets remaining ! The violet's short-liv'd day is past,

Memory alone that day retaining.

O say, where are the roses flown,

That wide their fragrant scents were throwing ? Pluck'd oft the faithful breast to crown,

A hand belov'd the gift bestowing !

Fair maid, the summer too is fled,

With its delights, beyond recalling; The beauteous roses all are dead,

Long since their blighted leaves were falling. Convey me then to that clear brook,

Along whose flowery margin straying, I've paus'd upon the stream to look,

Its murmurs soft my steps delaying.

Dry is the brook, whose pebbled course

Once down the vale was gently flowing ;
Such is of sun and wind the force,
No flower that drank its stream is growing.

Then lead me to the shady bower,

Late grac'd with roses intertwining, Where many a youth and maid the power

Of love confess'd, as there reclining.

The bower is stripp'd by hail and rain ;

Winter, in angry form appearing, Foretells his ruthless hour again,

Nor bowers nor groves are longer cheering.

Where is the village maiden, say,

Whose charms were like the rosy morning, Brighter than all the flowers of May,

Fairer than dew these flowers adorning ?

Transient, alas! is beauty's bloom,

Soon fade those charms we see displaying: Fond youth! behold yon grassy tomb,

The maid's remains are there decaying!

Where is the swain, where does he stray,

Whose gladsome pipe, so sweetly sounding, Tun'd rural songs in notes so gay,

Each hill and vale the strains resounding ?

Sweet maid, this life we so much prize,

As throbs the pulse, is fast retreating, Now low in dust the Minstrel lies,

And o'er his grave the storm is beating !

LINES FOUND IN A BOWER FACING

THE SOUTH.

SMYTHE.

Sort Cherub of the southern breeze,

O thou, whose voice I love to hear, When ling'ring through the rustling trees,

With lengthen'd sighs it sooths mine ear.

Oh! thou, whose fond embrace to meet,

The young Spring all enamour'd fies, And robs thee of thy kisses sweet,

And on thee pours her laughing eyes!

Thou, at whose call the light fays start,

That, silent in their hidden bower, Lie pencilling, with tend'rest art,

The blossom thin, and infant flower!

Soft Cherub of the southern breeze,

Oh! if aright I tune the reed,
Which thus thine ear would hope to please,

By simple lay, and humble meed;

And if aright, with anxious zeal,

My willing hands this bower have made, Still let this bower thine influence feel,

And be its gloom thy favourite shade! For Thee of all the cherub train

Alone my votive Muse would woo, Of all that skim along the main,

Or walk at dawn yon mountains blue;

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