"That the scar'd Franks may dread the wondrous

spell;

"Stay their rash strokes, nor try one plant to fell.” -Then sounds he adds, for incantation meet, Sounds, which no human tongue may dare repeat. Astonish'd at the voice, each lamp of night (Dread pow'r of magic!) gleam'd with pallid light: The moon, disturb'd, her shining horns withdrew, And, veil'd in clouds, no more appear'd in view. He now repeats the call, with tone severe, "SPIRITS INVOK'D! nor do ye yet appear? "Perchance ye wait, and thus forego th' alarm, "For words more potent, or more secret charm; "Tho' long disus'd, full well I know t' impart, "Each powerful order of the magic art.

"My tongue, defil'd with blood, that NAME can sound,

"The great, the dreaded NAME, whose note profound, "Each trembling fiend with awful reverence fears, "And Pluto's self is summon'd, when he hears. "Why dare ye thus delay ?-Obey with speed—” More had he spoke, but found the spell succeed.

Unnumber'd spirits to the wood repair;

Here speed the light-wing'd tribes that dwell in air;
And those who deep in Earth's dark womb abide,
In realms of mist and darkness doom'd to hide :
Lingering they come, for still in mind they bore,
How Michael bade them join in fight no more.
But each, so work'd the charm, his charge receives,
Dwells in the trunks, or lurks within the leaves.

MISS S. WATTS.

SONNET.

ON THE DIVINE PROVIDENCE,

FROM THE ITALIAN OF FILICAJA.

As some fond mother views her infant race,
With tender love o’erflowing while she sees;
She kisses one, one clasps in her embrace,

Her feet supporting one, and one her knees; Then, as the winning gesture, speaking face,

Or plaintive cry explain their different pleas, A look, a word she deals with various grace, And smiles, or frowns, as Love alone decrees. O'er man, frail kind, so Providence Divine Still watches; hears, sustains, and succours all, With equal eye beholding each that lives. If Heaven denies, oh! let not man repine! Heaven but denies to quicken duty's call, Or feigning to deny, more largely gives!

SONNET.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF MOZARELLO.

YE gales that gently fan the smiling sky,

And stealing from the flowers their fragrant dews,

With wiles of wanton blandishment, diffuse

The gather'd shower of odours as ye fly!

Ye verdant vales and streams that murmur by;

Fit haunts, which amorous sorrow well might chuse; Who bad your conscious echoes to my Muse, Each whisper'd hope, each flatter'd fear reply! Those conscious echoes I no more to tales Of woe shall wake; since o'er my maulier mind Firm Reason holds again her calm controul : Yet though no more, to lonely grief resign'd,

I wander here to weep, not less my soul

This cool, this murmur loves, these verdant vales!

tt

SONNET.

After the Manner of the old English Poets.

BY MISS SEWARD.

Pass o'er it, ye, who hate in modern lays
The quaint byperbole of ancient praise.

GAY

Y trips my nymph along the green retreat, With frolic, airy steps; and where they go Fresh florets rise, in twice their wonted glow. Yellower the sun-beams o'er the meadows fleet, Or fancies fond possess me. Her light feet, Glancing along, no other traces show.

They bend not the young grass, that springs to meet The falling arch of evening's showery bow,

Nor bruise the emmet on her busy way;

And if the downy blow-ball * flies its stalk, So would it fly beneath the gentlest play

Of Western winds, when, throng in tuneful talk, Amid new leaves, each songster of the grove Cheers, on her mossy nest his listening love.

* Ben Jonson's name for the seed vessel of the Dandelion.

SONNET *.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF THE ABBATE MONTI.

A HOLY zeal the lovely soul o'erpowers,
And bids Licoris to the cloister fly;
Forth from her eyes serene a lustre showers,
Soft as descends the paradisial sky.
LOVE vanquish'd, piqued, in idle ambush lours,
Stamping his broken arrows angrily;

On the shorn hair, discrown'd of bridal flowers,
Weeping lies scorn'd and trampled LIBERTY.
Blithe PLEASURE, too, his spangled garment shook,
Offering the spicy cup, the fragrant wreath,
And beckoning to the silky-curtain'd nook.
With bitter smile the damsel meets his look,
Closes the holy gates, and proudly saith,
"The keys in keeping I consign to DEATH."

* On a young Lady's taking the veil.