SONNET.

WHEN Pain for some few moments sets me free,
The ready flatterer Hope exerts her powers,
And, smiling, bids me think that I shall see

Of friendship, peace, and love, yet many hours:
She whispers too, that there may come a time,
When I no longer trifling with the Lyre,
Its heavenly chords shall wake to strains sublime,
That future ages hearing will admire.
Soon fade these prospects, like the gaudy cloud
Of Summer's eve: again I feel the sting
That rankles in my side, and stern and loud
I hear the dark, inexorable King;

He cries, "fond fool! those golden dreams resign;

46

Thy hours are number'd, thou wilt soon be mine."

R. A. D.

1799.

SONNET.

TO A SICK BED.

WHAT though thy pillow's set with many a thorn;
And round thee wait the family of pain,
With nightly phantoms of the fever'd brain;
Yet oft a ray of comfort gilds the morn;
Etherial forms thy waking dreams adorn:
When we an interval of ease obtain,

Nor throbbing pangs acute the fibres strain,
We muse on things divine, and worldly scorn.
Reflection calm, Devotion's spirit pure

Breathe joy, like gales from Paradise that blow; The passions still, the soul of aid assure,

And teach it well itself, and friends to know.

Thus Mercy to the couch of woe has given

To prove the heart of man, and bless the hand of

heaven.

EDINBURGH.

G. H. D.

SONNET.

TO AVAR O.

BRING forth thy gilded Car, and mount the throne, 'Tis a new purchase! see, it featly swings,

And seems to dance on its elastic springs; Nor mind the wheels that mock yon exile's groan, "Tis all but fancy-drive your pamper'd steeds

O'er that wide Champaign, all you there survey
Is yours-the hapless Swains are far away,
Whose looks might else arraign your wrongful deeds.
You think the very air which you inhale

Your property; insatiate tho' you be,
Your craving shall be sated soon, my friend!

Yonder the Demon hovers in the gale,
That brews the vapour of Mortality-

Soon other wheels thy mourning gate shall tend.

A NEW SONNET.

BY THEOPHILUS SWIFT, ESQ.

THE Moon-beam slumber'd on the silent wave
That gently kissed the shore; and all was still,
Save where the murmur of the distant rill
Whisper'd its banks between, or laps'd to lave,
Irriguous, the faithful Henry's grave.

Ah! me! beneath the foot of yonder hill

He sleeps pale ghosts among, where damp and chill The green turf bends its grassy head to save Eugenia's gentle spirit:-Saint divine!

Whose vows for Henry's life not Henry knew. But Death's embraces in one tomb confine

Their mingled souls. Now, reader, tell me true, Dost understand my Sonnet?" Every line.” Why faith, that's strange: 'tis more than I can do.

BELSHAZZAR.

BY WILLIAM CASE, JUN.

How curs'd the wretch, to dire Ambition held
In vassalage, thy fate, Belshazzar! speaks
A loud memento.-What though at the hour
When Treason, shunning the broad eye of day,
Pall'd in the gloom of night, with blushless front
Stalk'd forth, to jocund feast and waffailing
Thou gavest up thyfelf-thrice happier he,
The meanest son of Babylon, his cares

In balmy slumber hush'd! Though at thy throne
Innumerous Satraps bow'd the servile knee,

And kiss'd the hand they fear'd, and troul'd the

tongue

Of flattery, they could not hail thee heir

Of Heaven's sweet Eden! Though thy palace walls
Rang with the full of Harmony; nor sound
Of flute, or cornet, sackbut, psaltry, harp,
Or dulcimer, could lull the harrowing pangs
Of Conscience to repose. What though a robe
Sidonian, with the gold of Omphir wrought,
Thy limbs so gaily mantled-though a tiar,
Borrowing new lustre from the dazzling gleam
Of countless tapers, and the spiral blaze
Of incense-breathing vases, on thy brows