And when the next returning year
Again invites you to the grove;
Sweet Philomel, you'll find me here,
Complaining still of hapless love.

EPITAPH

ON A MONUMENT, IN LYDD CHURCH, KENT,

WRITTEN BY MR. ANSTEY.

On an amiable Lady, who died after a lingering illness in the 31st year of her age, and had earnestly prayed that her only child might not survive her.-The child died in a short time after its

mother.

An Angel is represented on a Monument in basso relievo, holding up a Child to its Mother in the clouds, and is supposed to speak the fol lowing lines:

THY prayer is heard-releas'd from mortal harms,
Receive thy darling infant to thine arms-

Sweet Saint! on thee when pining sickness prey'd,
Thy beauty canker'd, and thy youth decay'd,
"Twas thine, with patience meek, to Heav'n resign'd,
With Faith that arm'd, and Hope that cheer'd thy mind,
Death's ling'ring stroke undaunted to sustain,
And spare thy pitying Friends' and Husband's pain;
Studious thy heartfelt anguish to disguise
From sympathizing Love's enquiring eyes,
Conceal the tear, repress the struggling sigh,
And leave a bright example how to die :-
"Tis mine to crown thy wish, reward thy worth,

To wean each fond, each yearning thought from earth;
And bring this much lov'd object of thy care,

Thy joys to perfect, and thy Heaven to share.

TO A YOUNG LADY.

HARD is the heart that does not melt with ruth,
When care sits, cloudy, on the brow of youth;
When bitter griefs the female bosom swell,
And Beauty meditates a fond farewel

To her lov'd native land, prepar'd to roam,

And seek in climes afar the peace denied at home. The Muse, with glance prophetic, sees her stand (Forsaken, silent lady) on the strand

Of farthest India, sick'ning at the roar

Of each dull wave, slow dash'd upon the shore ;
Sending, at intervals, an aching eye
O'er the wide waters, vainly, to espy
The long-expected bark, in which to find
Some tidings of a world she left behind.
At such a time shall start the gushing tear,

For scenes her childhood lov'd, now doubly dear.
At such a time shall frantic memory wake
Pangs of remorse, for slighted England's sake;
And for the sake of many a tender tie
Of love, or friendship, pass'd too lightly by.
Unwept, unhonour'd, 'midst an alien race,
And the cold looks of many a stranger face,
How will her poor heart bleed, and chide the day,
That from her country took her far away.

ODE, ON THE PAST.

BY P. L. COURTIER,

Author of the "Pleasures of Solitude."

DAYS of my Youth! too quickly fled;
Visions of Love and Bliss, adieu!
Ill are acquir'd the aching head,

And manhood's sorrowing heart, for you!
Ah! what avails, with hopeful eye,

The raptur'd Future to descry?

In mercy hid, the dark unknown,

Our's be the pleasures past, since our's the Past alone!

Why lingers Recollection still,

O'er the fair scenes of lost delight; What time, from yonder eastern hill, Beam'd the mild sun of Being bright? "Tis, though the calmer Reason turn From wilds where Fancy's meteors burn, Fondly we give the pensive tear

To joys by Truth approv'd, and held by Memory dear!

O! come the forms by Feeling wrought,
And chace the soul's sad gloom away!

O come! for years have only taught
How soon the seeds of bliss decay.

Lo! by the tempest, sternly rude,
Life's blooming promise all subdued;

And Manhood's yet-unwithering prime,
Shrinks at the wintry blast of unpropitious Time.

If high ingenuous Honour charm—
If Beauty win thy fond esteem
Warmth, prompt at Friendship's call to arm,
Woman, what Lovers sweetly dream;
The mind from bitterest anguish free,
If days unsullied thou would'st see;

Then, close thine eyes on Youth's gay lawn, While yet thy Eden bloom, while now the morning dawn.

Why restless glows the wish to gain,

With wearying steps, Fame's arduous steep? Madly why seek the faithless Main,

To grasp Profusion's glittering heap?

All that e'en Conquest still adorns,
How often but a crown of thorns ;-

Still, the proud banner that he rears,

Greeted by orphan-cries, and drench'd with widow'd

tears!

Shall letter'd Glory's generous toils,
A grateful recompence bestow?
Ah! what are Learning's envied spoils,
But slight, and penury, and woe !—
Deep to the winds poor Genius sighs;
Unsought he roves, with tearful eyes;

Nor pitying friends his fate enquire,

Till, borne, by misery down, unaided Worth expire!

Since riches, honours, genius fail
To soothe and satisfy the mind,
I turn to that Elysian vale

Of loves and graces, yet behind !—
There, Fancy best her scene arrays;
There, Nature at the heart-strings plays;
There, sweetly wild the varied Year;
There, Joy's extatic thrill, and April's cloudless tear!

Days of my Youth! too quickly fled!
Visions of Love and Bliss, adieu !
Oh! ill-acquir'd this aching head,

And Manhood's sorrowing heart, for you.
Intent no more with hopeful eye

The rapturous Future to descry!

But kindly veil'd the dark unknown,

Mine be the pleasures past, for mine the Past alone!

FROM THE GREEK

OF PHILODEMUS.

TO RHODOCLEA.

To thee, fair Beauty, taught by Love, I bring
A chaplet, wreath'd with all the sweets of spring;
Sweet blooms narcissus-sweet the blushing rose,
In modest hue, while many a violet glows;
Accept the wreath, thyself a fairer flower,

As soon the victim of the fatal hour.

F. E. C. D.

VOL. III.

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