CHARLOTTE SMITH. TO TRANQUILLITY. In this tumultuous sphere, for thee unfit, I sure shall find thee in that heavenly scene, And Memory, lost in happiness serene, Repeat no more that misery has been mine! CHARLOTTE SMITH. SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN IN A CHURCH-YARD, OVER THE GRAVE OF A YOUNG WOMAN OF NINETEEN. O THOU, who sleep'st where hazle bands entwine I would, sweet Maid, thy humble bed were mine, For never more by human ills opprest, Shall thy soft spirit fruitlessly repine : Thou canst not now thy fondest hopes resign Even in the hour that should have made thee blest. Light lies the turf upon thy virgin breast; And lingering here, to love and sorrow true; SIR EGERTON BRYDGES. ON ECHO AND SILENCE. IN eddying course when leaves began to fly, As mid wild scenes I chanc'd the Muse to woo, And lo, she's gone!-in robe of dark-green hue, 'Twas Echo from her sister Silence flew : For quick the hunter's horn resounded to the sky! In shade affrighted Silence melts away. Not so her sister!-hark, for onward still With far-heard step she takes her listening way, Ah, mark the merry maid in mockful play With thousand mimic tones the laughing forest fill! THOMAS RUSSELL. TO VALCLUSA. WHAT though, Valclusa, the fond bard be fled, Long lov'd her living, long bemoan'd her dead, What though no more he teach thy shades to mourn As erst, when drooping o'er her turf forlorn, Pale Passion haunts thy grove's romantic gloom, Still heavenly incense fills each fragrant vale, M THOMAS RUSSELL. COULD then the babes from yon unshelter'd cot Implore thy passing charity in vain ? Too thoughtless youth, what though thy happier lot What though their Maker doom'd them thus forlorn |