At eve, the lovely condescending bride

Will take the ring, which on her finger shines,
And through the sacred circlet nine times slide
The fragrant gift, repeating mystic lines:
(The mystic lines we may not here make known,
Them shall the Muse reveal to virgins chaste alone.)

The stocking thrown, as ancient rules require,
Leave the glad lovers to compleat their joy;
And to thy pillow silently retire,

Where close beneath thy head the charm must lie: Raised by the power of love, in vision gay,

Thy future spouse shall come in holiday array.

And, soft approaching, with the mildest air,
Thy yielding lips shall modestly embrace:
O sweet illusion! wilt thou disappear?

Alas! it flies; the morning springs apace;
The blushing lover sees the light with pain,
And longs to recompose, and woo his dream again!

Q Time! relentless foe to every joy,

How all declines beneath thy iron reign! Once could our clerk to sweetest melody

Attune the harp, and charm the listening plain;

Or, with his mellow voice, the psalm could raise, And fill the echoing choir with notes of sacred praise.

But now, alas! his every power decays,

His voice grows hoarse, long toil has cramp'd his
hands,

No more he fills the echoing choir with praise,
No more to melody the harp commands:

Sadly he mourns the dulness of his ear,
And when a master plays he presses close to hear.

Late, o'er the plain by chance or fortune led,
The pensive swain, who does his annals write,
Him in his humble cottage visited,

And learned his story with sincere delight;
For chiefly of himself his converse rau,

As memory well supplied the narrative old man.

His youthful feats with guiltless pride he told,
In rural games what honours erst he won;
How on the green he threw the wrestlers bold,

How light he leaped, and oh! how swift he ran :
Then with a sigh, he fondly tuned his praise
To rivals now no more, and friends of former days.

At length, concluding with reflection deep:

Alas! of life few comforts now remain ! Of what I was I but the vestige keep,

Impair'd by grief, by penury, and pain;
Yet let me not arraign just heaven's decree:
The lot of human kind, as man, belongs to me!

'Beneath yon aged yew-tree's solemn shade,
Whose twisted roots above the green-sward
There, freed from toils, my pious father laid,
Enjoys a silent, unmolested sleep;
And there my only son-with him I gave
All comfort of my age untimely to the grave.

creep

'In that sweet earth, when Nature's debt is paid,
And leaving life, I leave its load of woes,
My neighbours kind, I trust, will see me laid,
In humble hope of mercy to repose:

Evil and few, the patriarch mourned his days,
Nor shall a man presume to vindicate his ways!"

MARIA;

OR,

THE FATHER'S RECOLLECTIONS.

BY W. CAREY, ESQ.

OH, thou, who wert thy father wont to hear,
And answer to his call with fond delight,
Maria, daughter, best beloved child,

Where art thou now? To what concealment fled ?
With me, thy mother calls, and, mov'd to tears,
Thy dear, thy nursling sister, joins her plaint.
In vain I call upon the silent dust.

Dull, dark, and senseless, as the mossy stone,
Which roofs her lowly tenement of clay,
She hears me not; nor feels the wintry blast,
That rends the forest, raves along the vale,
And drifts the new-fallen srow in heaps around.
Fool that I was.-Oh self-deceiv'd, to think
That I could wake again that voice of joy;
Or with her airy semblance glad my view,
Cloth'd in the harmony of sweet, pale smiles,
As when she look'd up in her father's face,
And woo'd me with her tender names of love.
'Twas thus I struggled to support that hour,
Which tore thee from me.-Fill'd with these fond hopes,
I bore to look upon thy face in death,
And saw the dark cold grave close on thee.
I fought against my nature. I supprest
Tears, sighs, and every common sign of grief,

I thought I said-we were not parted quite.
A father's love, I deem'd, would still preserve
Thy image in my heart, my eye, my mind.
Ah no! it must not be. A few short months,
Not full two fleeting years, have serv'd to chase
That image from my eye; have rendered dumb
That voice of transport. I no longer view
Those angel smiles: no longer now I hear
Those soft sweet tones. Hours, days, weeks pass,
And still remembrance is a joyless blank.
Save when mild Spring, or golden Summer leads,
Or sober Autumn tempts me forth to roam:
Alone, the woody glen, the pathless hill,
The wild brown moor, or river's shelving bank,
At morn, at eve, I wander. Pausing oft,
Struck by the rude magnificence of scene,
In pensive mood, the prospect I survey;

Fair lawns, and cultur'd meads, and flocks, and herds,
Grey cliffs, dark woods, and rolling silver streams,
Hamlets and village spires, green fields and mountains

blue,

Beyond whose airy openings, ocean seems

A shining speck. Immeasurable space

Before me seems to stretch. The lively breeze

Plays on my cheek, exhaling incense sweet

Of bloom, and bud, and herb, and fruit, and flower,
In wild luxuriance springing. Lulling sounds,
The sheep-bell's tinkle, and the low of kine,
Heard faintly from afar; the busy hum
Of myriad insects sporting on the wing;
The melody of birds from brake and bower;
The church-clock tolling from the church unseen;
The mingled swell of placid elements,

Of winds and waters murmuring as they move;
Steal on my ear. Tis INSPIRATION's voice

That calls on man to lift his soul in praise
Of him, the OMNIPOTENT, the GREAT FIRST CAUSE
Of all created being.-To the clouds,
That in majestic volumes roll on high,
My eye is raised. Along the azure skies,
Their march I wistful mark, and gaze intent,
Until the sight grows humid. Then, ah, then,
Thy angel spirit rises on my view.

My heart is full: my breast too small to hold
The tide of feeling.-Then, I hear—I see
Thee, thee, Maria, thee my best beloved,
A cherub, throned amid the heavenly choir,
Hymning the glories of the ETERNAL ONE.
Feb. 12, 1809.

ЕРІТАРН

ON MRS. MARISSAL.

BY MRS. BARBAULD.

FAREWELL, mild saint! meek child of love, farewell!
Ill can this stone thy finish'd virtues tell.
Rest, rest in peace! the task of life is o'er;
Sorrows shall sting, and sickness waste, no more.
But hard our task from one so lov'd to part,
While fond remembrance clings around the heart;
Hard to resign the sister, friend, and wife,
And all that cheers, and all that softens life.
Farewell! for thee the gates of bliss unclose,
And endless joy succeeds to transient woes.