Now all was dark, and all was mute,
Each cold as a corpse in his shroud,
If another they feel, their spirits congeal,
They shrink back, and shriek aloud.
Each luckless wight with out-stretched arms,
When he reach'd the church-door wide,
Ran fleet as wind, nor look'd behind,
"Till he stood at his own fire-side.
With terrors deep, too strong for sleep,
Watching the morning ray,
Each soul that fled, thought his comrades dead, As he bless'd the dawn of day.
FIRST when the lips of Lovers meet,
That Kiss of kisses, ô how sweet!
Time, while it steals each featur'd grace,
But treasures more that fweet embrace;
For, ah! no after-kiss so sweet,
As first when lips of lovers lips do meet!
BY THEOPHILUS SWIFT, ESQ.
HASTE thee Cupid, haste away,
Hie thee hence, nor more delay:
Quit, O quit my aching heart,
Or I'll make thee feel its smart,
And avenging all thy tricks,
Hurl thee headlong over Styx;
First thy plumy pinions bind
wreath behind;
Then away thine arrows throw,
Snap the quiver, break the bow;
Last, thyself I'll sacrifice.-
Now, what death shall I devise ?
If I hang thee up, you will
Round my heart be hanging still;
If I slay thee-then indeed,
I beneath the blow shall bleed;
Or should'st thou in flame expire,
Shall not I consume in fire ?
Then to ease, to end my cares,
I will drown thee in my tears.
COME! ye generous, gallant band,
Bulwarks of your native land,
In determin'd phalanx stand,
Firm as rocks, to meet your
Lo! the fiend of France draws nigh!
-Now your noble hearts beat high:
Hark! he threats that ye shall die,
Die-or groan in slavery.
Europe's scourge! he now aspires
Here to quench bright Freedom's fires,
Cherish'd by our warlike Sires,
Many a splendid century.
Thinks he that we fear his power?
No! he comes to meet his hour,
Here his evil angels lour,
Death, and scoffing Infamy!
All in vain his demon-band
Pant to tread this sacred land,
Britons circle hand in hand,
Sworn to conquer or to die.
Lo! the savage horde arrives.
-Now to save your homes, your wives,
Now to save your childrens' lives,
Men of England crush the foe!
Hark! he raves, in fury dire;
Men of England! rouze your ire!
Hearts of iron, souls of fire,
Guard your country's liberty!
you hate the name of slave, Fight, your liberties to save, Win the field, or find a grave,
Where freemen may nobly die.
Том,
Toм, you tell us, has treated you ill past example:
He's sick-go prescribe your revenge will be ample.
LE CONNOISSEUR OF MARMONTEL.
Ir, my Louisa, it be true
That souls transmigrate when we die,
May mine, existing but for you,
For you a rose-bud vivify.
And if by eyes unhallow'd seen,
By hands profane, approach'd too nigh,
I'd shrink beneath my thorny skreen,
And sheltered there indignant lie.
But by Louisa's presence grac'd
I'd spread to meet her brilliant eyes;
If on her swelling bosom plac'd
Where love in chaste concealment lies.
I'd there display my gayest bloom,
Exhaling all my fragrance there,
That mingling with her breath's perfume,
I might congenial sweetness share.
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