The Masters of the Tuscan lays

Unwonted speech may learn, and win unbounded fame *.

When Italy respir'd

From Gothic rage, and War's wide-wasting storm, She saw, with adoration fir'd,

Stern Dante's awful port, and Petrarch's graceful form.

Erin's green vales and hills resound,

Smote by the golden shafts of Morn.Behold the sweet Aonian throng,

In measures light they pace the ground, And, on the swelling breezes borne,

The words of Heav'n resound, and Echo learns

the song.

"Thou poor neglected Isle,

46

"Arise, array thyself in beamy light;

Exulting own the Muse's smile,

"And learn the blessed arts of mental proud de

light."

Then, may we see some Bard arise,
In free-born dignity of song,

To bear the Muse's guerdon wide,

And snatch the chaplets, in the skies

Prepar'd to crown the patriot throng,

In worth transcending gold, and gems, and scepter'd pride.

The sacred gates unfold,

Where dwell the pow'rs of everlasting fame; Amid the learn'd and good enroll'd,

And grav'd in adamant, we read a Caulfield's

honour'd name.

W. PRESTON.

*In allusion to specimens of the principal Italian Poets, translated by the late Lord Charlemount.

FROM A LADY,

TO HER LOVER.

RED with my tears, and strangers long to rest,
My eyes, at last, your welcome letter blest;
Blest, till the folds I burst with fatal speed,
And weep again, and tremble as I read :

* Yet, when the daring words my heart revolves,
Scarce what to wish, though wounded, it resolves.
If cold Indifference in your lines appears,
Wretched I view, and wash them with my tears.
If warm with amorous passion they o'erflow,
Fir'd at the sight, my conscious blushes glow.
Still where the crime, if Innocence confess'd,
That Love, chaste Love, inspir'd a woman's breast?

* Quid tamen ipse precer dubito: nec dicere possum,
Affectum quem te mentis habere velim.

Tristis es? indignor, quod sum tibi causa doloris:

Non es? ut amisso conjuge digna fores.

OVID. TRIST. L. 4. EL. 3.

Yet this, ungrateful man to triumph turns,
And with forbidden fires presumptuous burns,
Our fond simplicity to guilt transforms,

And wounds the bosom that his image warms.
But know, rash youth, howe'er of me you deem,
Howe'er below respect my weakness seem,
Know in this heart hath early virtue reign'd,
A father planted, and a mother train'd;
Sacred to honour, and to heav'n it grew,
And guards its treasur'd fruit mature for you.
But could'st thou cherish once the abject thought,
That sapp'd by treacherous arts, or meanly bought,
What worlds could never purchase, it might give,
And I, the slave of vice, one moment live;
Thy lov'd idea from my heart I'd wring,
Though every vein should burst, and every string.
Ah! hope not, dare not, such a monstrous wrong,
Nor seek to add me to the guilty throng,
Whose griefs I pity, but their vices hate,

With horror view, and shun their wretched fate;
But wild suspicion clouds my frantic mind,
And still my friend is just, and still is kind,
Though cruel fortune from my arms detain,
And bind him struggling with her galling chain.
Come then, O come, to this fond bosom fly,
And bid my beauty live, my sorrows die.
No words can paint how faithful I will prove,
And must not tell how tenderly I love.

ELEGY

ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY,

BY JOHN GREENSHIELDS, ESQ.

DEAR to my soul, oh early lost!
Affection's arm was weak to save,
And Friendship's pride, and Virtue's boast,
Have sunk to an untimely grave.

Clos'd, ever clos'd, those speaking eyes,
Where sweetness beam'd, where candour shone!
And silent that heart-thrilling voice,
Which Music lov'd, and call'd her own.

That gentle bosom now is cold,

Where Feeling's vestal splendours glowed;
And crumbling down to common mould,
That heart, where love and truth abode.

Yet I behold the smile unfeign'd,
Which doubt dispelled and kindness won;
Yet the soft diffidence, that gain'd
The triumph it appear'd to shun.

Delusion all- -forbear my heart,
These unavailing throbs restrain ;
Destruction has perform'd his part,
And Death proclaims thy pangs are vain.

Vain tho' they be this heart must swell
With grief that time shall ne'er efface;
And still with bitter pleasure dwell,
On every virtue, every grace.

For ever lost! I vainly deem'd,
That Heaven my early friend would spare ;
And darker as the prospect seem'd,
The more I struggled with Despair.

I said yet a presaging tear
Unbidden rose, and spoke more true→→→
She still shall live-the unfolding year
Shall banish pain, and health renew.

She yet shall tread the flowery field,
And catch the opening roses breath;
To watchful Love Disease shall yield,
And Friendship ward the shafts of Death.

Alas! before the violet bloom'd,
Before the snows of winter fled,
Too certain Fate my hopes consum'd,
And she was numbered with the dead