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. And wear thou this,' she solemn said,
Agd bound the holly round my head;
The polish'u leaves, and berries red,

Did rustling play:
And like a passing thought, she fled

In light away.' Burns.

SCENE-4 Room in a small Hut; a Child lying in

a Cradle. Enter Nature, leading in Fancy, Rus. TICITY, and PLEASURE, as Fairies"; the Musés and GRACEs on either side of them. Then, enters MELAN.

CHOLY, slowly following.
Nature. Sisters, sisters, come away;

Touch with magic art this clay,
Ever lovely, ever fair,
Make it your peculiar care.
By this wand of sacred treasure,
By the gifts of Heavenly pleasure,
By all our boundless power I swear,

He shall be my constant care.
All. He shall be my constant care.
Nature. Your wreathes around his temples twine,

All your charms at once combine;
E’er the infant rose is flown,

We'll make a “poet of our own.”
Fancy. Mother of charms! immortal queen!

Light of earth, and every scene!
'Tis thine thy will alone to say;

Our's-instinctive to obey.
Sweet babe, thou fair pledge of an innocent love!
In thy soul, tho' now slumb'ring, my spirit shall move;
There kindle the sparks of the Heavenly ray,
Till the years of thy childhood are vanish'd away:

And then like the dew of the morn to the gale,
It shall rise from thy soul and with majesty shine;
My spirit to soothe thee o'er all shall

prevail, Tho' dazzling thy mind with the splendor divine. Rusticity. O, sweet is the rose-bud just op'ning its

blossom! And sweet is the scent of the hawthorn at e'en; And dear are their charms to the bard's pensive bosom,

As, wrapt in delight, he exales the bright scene:


But dearer, far dearer to me shall't thou be,
Through my vales thy sweet numbers shall echo and

No charm that I boast shall be premier to thee;

We'll liail thee the chief of the kings o' Scot's rhyme. Muses. Ever vieing, never dying,

Never cease t'exalt his name. Graces. Heaven regard our rustic bard,

Candour sound his future fame. Muses. Seraphic lyre! lend your fire;

Let ihe warbling lute complain. Graces. Love and Pleasure, yield your treasure;

Beauty barmonize his reign. Pleasure. If the sunshine of Fancy, the bliss of the The heartfelt desire for glory and fame;

If these shall have power thy soul to infuse, 0! why should not Pleasure siill brighten the flame!

Ah, Pleasure celestial! blest consort of Peace! Still valued by all, and enjoy'd by the wise;

O! ne'er in our bard shall its fluttering cease, And ne'er shall bis bosom its power despise.

Let the thunder of Fortune, of Envy, and Scorn, Point their darts' deadly venom to waken thy fear ;

But as long as thine eyes hail the beauties of morn, So long will I prove to our Poet sincere.

[They all vanish. Melancholy advances.] Mel. U work celestial! incomplete, unfinished ;-yet

so fair! 'Tis mive to blast thy rose of fertile bloom ;

Mine to o'erwhelm thy hope with grim despair,
And crush thy blossom in an early tomb.

Thus in thy soul I pour my baneful breath :
So, while the shepherd leaves his bleating lamb,

The prowling wolf with bideous cries of death
Devours its prey, nor heeds the yearnings of its dam.

Re-enter NATURE, &c. as before.
Nature. Ab! sad destruction to our native babe!
Foul fiend, avaunt! in shades of darkness hide

Thy wither'd wrinkled brow, nor e'er presume, Great Nature's wrath impetuous to abide. [They all strike Melancholy with their wands ; she wreathes as expiring.]


• Pope

AMWELL. MANY great men have signalized their love of the country by describing the beauties of the district in which they resided, and thus rendering it interesting to the sen. timental traveller. Amwell, a quiet village, two miles from Ware, in Hertfortshire, is principally celebrated for a beautiful estate called Amwell-Bury, laid out with much taste by a late Mr. Scott. Here he constructed a curious grotto, which 'he thus describes in his elegantly written poem, called " Amwell.”

Where China's willow bangs its foliage fair,
And Po's tall poplar waves its top in air,
And the dark maple spreads its umbrage wide,
And the white beach adorns the basin side;
At noon reclin'd, perhaps, be sits to view
The bank's neat slope, the water's silver hue,
Where, midst thick oaks the subterraneous way,
To the arch'd grot admits a feeble ray,
Where glossy pebbles pave the varied floors,
And rough Aint-walls are deck'd with shells and ores
And silvery pearls, spread o'er the roofs on high,
Glimmer like faint stars in a twilight sky:
From noon's fierce glare, perhaps, he pleas'd retires,
Indulging musings which the place inspires.
Now where the airy octagon ascends,
And wide the prospect o'er the vale extends,
Midst evening's calm, intent perhaps he stands,
And looks o'er all that length of sun-gilt lands,
Of bright green pastures, stretch'd by rivers clear,
And willow groves, or osier islands near!”

Amwell boasts also of having had amongst its inhabi. tants, Mr. Hoole, the translator of Tasso, and Mr. Walton, the angler; the scene of his “ Angler's Dialogues" is the vale of Lee, between Tottenham and Ware : he par. ticularly mentions Amwell Hill.





ERTAINLY there is not in the dominions of Great Britain a lovelier spot than the one now before the reader,--the Bridge over the Dee, and Canal of Ellesmere, at Chirk, Llangollen. The town of Llangollen in itself is insignificant, being placed in a particularly small dale, and environed with huge moun.

tains. On one of them, a little above the town, are the remaivs of Castle Caer Dinas Brân, or Crow Castle, supposed to have been founded by Brennus, the Gaulic general: the mountain river Brân, runs at the foot of the hill.

The Dee, from the bridge at Llangollen, is a striking object, raging furionsly down the broad, solid rock, for a considerable space. From this place the prospect is really enchanting; the aqueduct of Chirk immediately in front; the peculiar richness of the valley, intersected on every side by water, in all its variety of forms, from the foaming torrent, to the silent and gentle flowing stream. A more bewitching or picturesque landscape cannot be conceived.

The famous Aqueduct, which was formed for conveying the water over the river Dee, and the vale of Llangollen, was built in the year 1795, at the expenee of the nobility and gentry of the adjacent counties. It is supported by columns of immense thickness; several of those which stand in the bed of the river, are more than one hundred feet in height. NO. XIII.



AND he is dead that drew
The breath of many a wounded day,
Of watchful nights, alike perchance in hue,

And no voice heard to wail! Shall no hand strew Leaves for his fame to sleep on, wearied of its way.

May not some arm be raised
Unto the banner which he poized so well,
The poet's sign, that from dark times hath blazed,

Making chill reason stand amazed,
It Warmed by the flame he could not quelle -
May not this banner of bright bards be wound,
A winding-sheet of life, betwixt him and the ground.

The world must bold
An echo of the wondrous things he told;

The pictures he hath wrought,
Forth from the womb of phantoms brought,
Live based on everlasting thought :

All, all that he hath done

Is of the sea and sun!
He (another prophet) saw
A moving hand along the thunder-cloud,

And kuew the language of that law,
And read it to a Babylonian crowd:
But men in peril are most proud,

Ard laugh to scorn
The voice that comes to warn;
And so he died, but not unheard-
Although the meaning of his mighty word
Only to a few was given-

[riven And who that felt the tone, knew how the harp was

O cold neglect,
And cruel tauntings of the ruffian wind !
Why work ye upon nature's calm and kind,
To rush on deadly waters, whirled and wrecked ?

Because the earth be blind,

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