Day after day new rays of genius rise,
And brighter show the bliss that Fate denies.
Fly hours, and shed o'er Laura in your flight
Gay lively joys, and unallay'd delight.
O may no pangs of passion ill-repay'd,
Or ceaseless agonies her peace invade,
No charms fallacious, lure her youthful eyes,
Illusive arts, or well-dissembled sighs.

desire!

But should her heart-thou wretch, forbear awhile-
Enough for thee her pity or her smile-
O may his bosom feel th' etherial fire,
Heave with my sighs, and glow with my
Meanwhile, for me long lonely hours remain,
Of tears unpitied, and unpitied pain;
By day the fix'd and inattentive eye,
The' unmeaning answer, and unfinish'd sigh;
By night, the luxury of hopeless care,
And the short slumber waking to despair.
O dire estate of still-increasing woes,
Essential gloom, where never sun arose !
My Laura's hand, severe and strong as Fate,
On pensive Peace has barr'd th' eternal gate.
Rapt from the vulgar throng with purer flame,
How rush'd my heart a kindred soul to claim!
That kindred soul, with calm indiff'rence fraught,
Wak'd to no tender sympathy of thought,
Can coldly mark the ruin she has made,
And wish me happy, yet withhold her aid.
As round this busy world my eyes I throw,
The world appears a drear abode of woe;
My soul, 'midst beings of some diff'ring kind,
Roams wild, repuls'd from its congenial mind;
And ne'er can Peace revisit my sad heart,
Tho' godlike Friendship plies her lenient art.

W

OCCASIONAL ADDRESS

TO THE VOLUNTEERS,

Spoken at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, on Friday, 25th Nov. 1803, after the Performance of the Play of King Henry the Fifth, for the Benefit of the Patriotick Fund.

WRITTEN BY WILLIAM BOSCAWEN, ESQ.

IN Spartan bands to wake heroic fire,
Renown'd TYRTEUS strung his martial lyre ;
TYRTEUS, lame and weak, unskill'd to wield
The flying spear, or grasp the ponderous shield;
Nor by experience taught in just array
To form the files, and guide the doubtful fray:
Yet, heaven-inspired, he knew, beyond controul
With strains sublime, to rouse the torpid soul,
Swell with proud hopes the heart, and, by his breath,
Kindle the love of Fame, the scorn of Death.
And shall the British Muse, 'midst War's alarms,
In silence rest, nor rouse her sons to arms?

Shall Britons yield an unresisting prey,

And own a base Usurper's foreign sway?

No-when ye march to guard your sea-girt shore, "Return victorious, or return no more!"

Greece, in her freedom's most propitious hour, Waged impious wars, in quest of spoil, or power;

The above line was first taken from the celebrated Speech of Mr. Mackintosh; in which it appears, as a citation, but without any reference; but the Author of this Address has since learn'd that it is to be found in the Prologue to Mr. Home's Tragedy of Agis.

And Rome, through many an age, unjustly brave,
Fought to oppress, and conquer'd to enslave.

E'en the bright wreaths our EDWARDS, HENRIES,

claim,

Crown'd not the cause of Freedom, but of Fame;
While fond Ambition, with misguided zeal,
Sought England's glory more than England's weal.
But when, of old, to chase a foreign host,
The painted guardians of our Albion's coast,
O'er her white cliffs descending, from afar
On CESAR's legions pour'd the tide of war,
When scythed chariots swept th' ensanguined plain,
Then Bards, enraptured, sung this patriot strain:
"Ye generous Youths, who guard the British shore!
"Return victorious, or return no more!"

Again Britannia sounds her just alarms;
Nor lures by Int'rest or Ambition's charms,
But prompts to deeds, which fairer trophies yield
Than graced e'en Agincourt's immortal field,
And bids you guard, in free and gallant strife,
All that adorns, improves, or sweetens life.
Your Homes, by faithful Love and Friendship blest,
Each pledge of Love, now smiling at the breast,
Your Daughters, fresh in bloom, mature in charms,
Doom'd (should he conquer) to the Spoiler's arms;
Your Sons, who hear the Tyrant's threats with scorn,
The Joys, the Hopes of ages yet unborn,

All, all, endear this just, this sacred cause,
Your Sov'REIGN's Throne, your FREEDOM, FAITH,
and LAWS.

Champions of Britain's cherish'd rights ye stand:
PROTECT, PRESERVE, AVENGE your native land!
For lo! She cries, amidst the battle's roar,
"Return victorious, or-return no more!"

O RUS!

BY THE LATE REV. W. B. STEVENS.

YE fields! where once, with careless feet,
The fairy forms of Spring to meet
My childhood lov'd to roam,
Again to view each laughing scene,
Your flowrets fresh, and daisied green,
Ye genial fields! again I come:

And with me bring a grateful meed
For pleasures past, my rural reed,
To you its notes belong;

And while my artless simple strains
Re-echo to my native plains,

The Shepherd-girl shall love my song:

And while beneath yon hawthorn shade,
For lonely Peace and Pleasure made,
My listless length I lay,

Kind Fancy from her magic bow'r,
Shall call the grove, the field, the flow'r,

And bid the Muse the scene survey.

The Woodland Nymphs and Naiads 'round,
From every stream, and every mound,
Shall see the voice obey'd;

And o'er each spring of gentler flow,
Each forest tall of wider show,

With hallow'd hand, the Muse shall lead.

The Muse, entranc'd in new delight,
Shall dwell on each alluring sight,
And bless their woodlands high;
And every hill, and every dale,
The tufted grove, the cottag'd vale

Shall catch, with joy, her charmed eye.

Now when the morn shall wake the hours,
And call them from their beds of flow'rs
To rise in brighter glow,

The Genius of the mountain hoar
Shall learn her song, of sacred pow'r,
And bear it to the vales below.

And Health with dewy buskin bare,
Shall breathe with her the upland air,
And tread the dells around;

With her shall hear the "slumb'ring morn,”
By op'ning hound, and echoing horn,
"Chearly rous'd," in sylvan sound.

The grass with glittering dew besprent,
The lark on airy notes intent
Again shall draw her eye;

The rural pleasures, in her train,
Shall love the wildly-warbled strain

The Milkmaid pours, her Shepherd nigh.