While dying Twilight's mournful sighs
Round Nature's moss-clad altar heave,
Æolian notes from starry skies,

The plaintive minstrelsy of eve,

Shall charm th' enthusiast's lab'ring breast,
Warbling in Fancy's raptur'd ear
The songs that sooth eternal rest,
The music of thy native sphere.

Oh! it will calm thy fever'd brain,
Whose fibres throb in frantic woe;
But never must thy heart again

One thought upon the world bestow.

In my lone dell, by Nature blest,

Where her sky-tinted chaplets bloom, No madd'ning sorrow rends the breast, Nor sways in visionary gloom.

To Virtue, Taste, and Genius dear,
Come to my holy, peaceful bower;
But never must a mortal tear

Profane my consecrated hour.

That witching voice no more shall charm,
That lures thee from thy promis'd Heav'n,
But when the beams of Mem❜ry warm,
One sigh may rise, and be forgiv'n.

Oh, when the lightnings of her eye
Shall pierce the deep'ning vale of Time,
And when the long-lov'd visions fly,

I'll nerve thy soul with powers sublime,

To triumph o'er the fateful past,.

That clouds the morning of thy days,

While bright through Fate's o'erwhelming blast Shall living beams of glory blaze.

Then seek my deep-embow'ring grove-
There shall thy painful wand'rings cease;
And ev❜n the breast of hapless Love
Shall own the golden dreams of Peace.

STANZAS ON SPRING.

ANONYMOUS.

STERN Winter has fled,

And now in his stead

Sweet Spring, Nature's fondling, commences her

reign:

The green leaves are shooting-
The birds are saluting

With notes of delight her return to the plain.

The Sun looking gay

On his heav'nly way,

Careers in his glory, and smiles on the world;
Soft zephyrs are blowing,

Young flow'rets are growing,

And Pleasure's bright standard is widely unfurl'd:

While snow-drops around

Are adorning the ground, And lilies appear in their simple array, In walks green and mazy,

The crocus, the daisy,

The vi'let and primrose, enliven our way.

The linnets in throngs

Pour out their glad songs,

The bullfinch replies from the fresh-springing grove;

The lark, gaily flitt'ring,

Unites his shrill twitt'ring;

The stock-dove complains in low murmurs of love.

The soft-gliding streams
Reflect the bright gleams

That dart from the soul-cheering fountain of light; Where umbrage is darkling,

The pure water sparkling,

Like diamonds is glancing, and cheering the sight.

Hail season so pleasing,
Whose bounty releasing

Glad earth from the bondage of Winter's fell power, Invites us to wander

In careless meander,

To gaze on the beauties of grove, mead, or flower.

Sweet Spring! could my lyre
Fulfil my desire,

Of sounding a strain that is worthy of thee,
I ne'er should be wanting

In loftily chanting

Thy praise, when thou clothest the shrub and the

tree.

MONODY

On the death of the Princess Charlotte of Wales and Saxe-Cobourg.

FROM THE FRENCH OF M. SURENNE.

Ye palaces, cities, groves, forests, and glades, Now shroud all your beauties in night's deepest shades!

For our crown's brightest gem, the delight of our

eyes,

And the joy of our hearts, in the sepulchre lies!

O Heaven! what dreadful infliction of woe!
Our senses are stunn'd by the weight of the blow;
Restore us, restore us, O merciless Fate,

The Offspring, the Blossom, the Rose of the State!

Sun, hide thy bright fires, for with Britain there

reigns

Such woe, that thou canst not illumine her plains;
With a funeral veil our sad country's o'erspread,
And with sorrowful cypress she's ev'ry-where clad.

Fly, gay Polyhymnia, far from our shore-
The voice of thy song can delight us no more;
For henceforth our sobs and our groans shall
abound,

And compose a wild concert of grief all around.

Ye Rivers and Brooks, change your beds from our

strand,

And offer your streams to some happier land:

For the fast-flowing tears which Britannia yields, Shall be the sole show'rs that shall nourish her fields.

Ye Winds, oh! in pity your breezes restrain, Nor augment with shrill bowlings our anguish and pain;

For the breath that proceeds from our heart-rending sighs,

For our days doom'd to sorrow, shall amply suffice.

Dire Atropos, thou by whom ruin is brought, What merciless havock is this thou hast wrought? Where now shall the throne of our kingdom find hope,

Or childhood have pleasure, or age seek its prop!

Oh, model of Virtue! we weep for thy doom, While thou, noble princess, art cold in the tomb! But now thy bright spirit those mansions hath found,

Where pleasures unfading for ever abound.

WHAT HAS BEEN.

A Dirge. Written at the approach of Winter.

ANONYMOUS.

NOVEMBER'S chill and cheerless power
Sheds gloom around o'er ev'ry scene;
I slowly seek the leafless bower,
And sadly muse on what has been.

The blast sighs mournful through the trees
That lately wav'd their arms so green;