Swell high the solemn dirge-and let the sound
Roll through extended Europe's farthest bound-
Who sway'd her commerce sleeps on Britain's shore,
And Art's distinguish'd Patron is no more.

With trophied pomp to deck the gorgeous shrine
Where luxury's proud and pamper'd race recline,.
Let the triumphal arch to heav'n ascend,
And all her pow'rs devoted Genius lend-
From righteous deeds the proudest trophies rise,
Thy virtue, HOPE! a nobler shrine supplies-
Just dealings round the good a lustre throw,
Greater than brass and marbles can bestow !
Soon shall the sculptured urn, the breathing bust,
Their charms resign, and crumble into dust,
But, while Time's rapid cycles glide away,
And sinking nature rushes to decay,

VIRTUE still towers, immortal and sublime! Beyond the rage of fate, the bounds of time; Survives the wreck, survives the burning sphere, Blooming and bright through heav'ns eternal year!

MADRIGAL,

FROM THE FRENCH OF MONTREUIL.

WHAT Woes my hapless bosom rend,
Ah! dearest Sylvia! ask no more.
Those woes must last till life shall end;
But soon will they be o'er!

R. A. D.

STANZAS,

FROM THE ITALIAN OF GAETANO POLIVOZI,

LIGHT as the wind, the beauteous flower

Of youth swift hastens to decay;

And with it, to return no more,

Each laughing love, each pleasure gay!

Then, fair MIRANDA, timely wise,
Enjoy the spring of beauty's bloom;
For soon life's halcyon season flies,

And comes the tempest's cheerless gloom!

Adorned with flowers of perfume sweet,
Spring opes her bosom to the gale,

Pursued by Summer's sultry heat,

Brown Autumn's glooms, and Winter's hail:

Thus flowers and fruits successive show,
The tree resigns its ripened load,
And bare appears each sapless bough,
Where late Pomona's treasure glowed!

Yet, (such Creation's changeless doom,)
When past is Winter's icy reign,
The naked boughs their flowers resume,
And in fresh verdure bloom again!

But ne'er for us shall youthful Spring
Escape from Winter's bondage hoar;
Succeeding years will Sorrow bring,

But Pleasure shall return no more!

R. A.

HOPE.

"TWAS in Love's vernal morn
A tender Hope I rear'd;
A rose without a thorn,
And lasting it appear'd:

And lovely did it bloom,
'Neath Beauty's genial ray;
It shed a sweet perfume,

And made my garden gay.

But short the sunshine hour,
A transitory gleam!
No more the tender flow'r

Feels Beauty's genial beam.

But tho' beneath the blast
The tender flow'ret fell,
Still shall its fragrance last,
And sweet be yet its smell.

ADO.

INDEPENDENCE.

A BALLAD.

BY MISS MITFORD.

This Ballad was occasioned by reading the following Paragraph in a Magazine for the present Month." There now resides " in Cawsand, a man who has not slept in a bed for thirty " years. He was a sailor in his youth, and unfortunate. He "always refused an asylum in the work-house, living on the "miserable pittance of two-pence or three-pence a day, earned

by carrying pitchers of water. He indignantly preferred "this to living by the bounty of others. In the coldest night "of winter he would sleep under a boat on the beach of "Cawsand; at other times he took refuge in the cliffs of the "rocks; and couched himself with the raven and the otter."

TALK not to me of food or bed,

Or the warm winter coat,

Whence comes the meat with which you're fed?
What does that dress denote ?

What is that room, from storms aloof,
In which so snug you lie ?

What are they all, coat, food, and roof?
Badges of slavery!

Must you not cringe, and beg, and fawn?

Slave even to the clocks,

Thy matin call, the bolts undrawn,
Thy vesper, creaking locks.

Must you not in that house miscall'd,
Of miserable sloth,

Your mind and body both enthrall'd,
Degraded, sunken both,-

Must you not bear the bitter tauut
Of oft imputed blame,

Your only crimes old age and want,
Disease your only shame?

Must you not crouching ask the boon
Avarice is forc'd to give?

And hear them calculate-how soon
You'll die-how long can live?

And must you not-O direst woe!
Look grateful, bow, and smile;
Thank them from whom those blessings flow,
Soothe, flatter, and beguile?

And would you have me such as you?
Me, from whose honest tongue
No sentence, consciously untrue,
From youth to age has sprung?

And would you court me to your home,
In joyless prison pent?

Me, who can every kingdom roam,
And find in all Content?

What though I draw, for scanty gain

Fresh water from the spring;

Did she, of ISAAC lov'd, disdain

An equal load to bring?