VI.

Some chosen partner's anxious breast,
Of every sorrow to beguile,
Till vanquish'd Care itself attest

Their triumph with an answering smile;

VII.

When all those talents which combine,
Thy fond admiring friends to cheer,
Shall with increasing splendour shine,
To decorate a wider sphere;

And when, perhaps, a mother's care
Shall bid a gentle progeny;
Those graces and those virtues share,
Which now so richly bloom in thee;

IX.

With rapture shall thy parents own,

That, while they form'd thy tender mind,
Though mov'd by partial love alone,
They dealt a blessing to mankind.

EPIGRAM.

FROM THE GREEK.

THE Miser, Hermon, in a dream
Disburs❜d a little of his pelf,
He woke, and in despair extreme
Away he went, and hang'd himself.

G. L. S.

I LOVE THEE.

CAN'ST thou forget life's sweetest hour?
Can'st thou forget the woodbine bower?
Where, on one delicious eve,

My falt'ring lips first dar'd to breathe

I love thee!

Around thy form my arm was twin'd;
Upon my breast thy cheek reclin'd;
When, bending o'er thy list'ning ear,
I breath'd, in sighs of hope and fear-

I love thee!

That blushing cheek you gently rais'd,
Upon my face a moment gaz'd;
Then instant on my breast conceal'd
The eyes whose melting glance reveal'd-

But, oh! 'twas not the glance alone,
Told me thy heart was all my own;
No! from thy lips a murmur stole,
That whisper'd to my ravish'd soul-

I love thee!

I love thee!

'Twas then I knew affection's kiss,
'Twas then I drank of heaven's bliss;
For sure 'tis heaven's bliss we feel,
When lips of innocence reveal-

I love thee!

But woe betide the cruel hour,
That tore my Ellen from her bower;
For now, in glitt'ring pomp array'd,
She's quite forgot that e'er she said-

I love thee!

Oh! Ellen, when the grave shall shrine
The broken heart that once was thine,
Thou wilt recall the blissful eve,
When timid love first dar'd to breathe-

I love thee!

And finding then, that Fortune's beam
Sheds but a cold and sickly gleam,

Thou'lt wish the heart that's ceas'd to beat,
Could hear thy lips again repeat-

I love thee!

WHISTON BRISTOW.

TO MISS S.

IN IMITATION OF WALLER'S EPIGRAM," SUCH HELEN WAS."

SUCH were the strains the tuneful Sappho sung!
So sweet the notes of her enchanting tongue!
But had like beauty bless'd the Lesbian's face,
Had she, like thee, been crown'd with ev'ry grace,
No scornful Phaon had her love deny'd,

The nymph had triumph'd, and the boy had dy❜d.

DR. RUSSEL.

LINES

Written on finding, when at Dumfries, in 1811, that the Poet Burns was buried in the Churchyard without any Monument erected to his Memory.

SWEET bard! than whom no minstrel's art
More strongly moves th' enraptur'd heart,
Shalt thou in death unhonour'd lie,
No marble tomb, no trophy nigh;
While, stor'd with wealth, in genius poor,
So many rest in pomp secure?

Thou bad'st all nature weep thy friend *;
Shall none to thee rich trophies send?
Yet thee the Cushat in the grove
Oft mourns, forgetful of her love;
The little hare-bells droop their head,
Nor care to bloom, now thou art dead!
The owlet, from the aged tree,

All through the midnight wails for thee!
Shall man then, heedless of thy muse,
The sculptur'd urn to thee refuse?
He, Coila + first to glory rais'd

Thy land, before unnam'd, unprais'd.

* See Burns's " Elegy on the Death of Matthew Henderson."

†The old name of a district in Ayrshire, where Burns was born.

The Nine such base neglect upbraid,
Such rich deserts so ill repaid;
Enrag'd they quit thy shores unkind,
To dull Baotian air consign'd!

MADRIGAL.

FROM THE FRENCH OF MONTREUIL.

H. P.

COME, prithee, get rid of those whimsies and fancies,
Which spoil you, and give me such pain;
'Tis eternally reading these idle romances,
Has made you so haughty and vain.

You think in the youth, who would fain be your lover,
Heroic perfection should shine;

That each look, and each word, and each deed, should discover,

He deems you a being divine.

"Tis the wildest of visions! then cease to caress it;

Nor to flattering praises give way.

I'm no angel, nor hero, I frankly confess it;

Do you the same candour display.

No goddess are you, from the heavens transported,
To set all the world in a flame;

But as pretty a maiden as ever was courted,

And Louisa, my dear, is your name.

R. A. DAVENPORT.