Wandering over hill and dale, Watching oft the kneeling saintHearing his groans float on the galeNo wonder thou art tir'd and pale. Yet I have often seen thee bring Thy beams o'er yon bare mountain's steep; When the pilgrim's heart did fail, Sure, that passing blush deceives; For thou, fair nymph, art chaste and cold! Love our bosoms seldom leaves; But thou art of a different mould. Hail, chaste queen! for ever hail! And, prithee, look not quite so pale! Yet stay-perhaps thou'st travell'd far, Till, as I fear, some youthful Star Hath spread his charms before thy sight; having printed them without her permission. For inserting compositions so much in the spirit of one of the most interesting periods of our early poetry, though the productions of the reign of George III. he cannot think any apology due to the reader. And, when he found his arts prevail, The Owl. [From the same MS.] WHILE the Moon, with sudden gleam, Darts her light upon the stream, Pleas'd I hear thy boding cry! Sure, thy notes are harmony! While the maiden, pale with care, Sighs her sorrows to the air, While the flowerets round her fade,― While the wretch, with mournful dole, Wrings his hands in agony, Praying for his brother's soul, Shrinks to hear thy boding cry,- |