STANZAS.

How gloomy this castle, that frowns o'er the sea,

1

What a dreary and desolate scene!—

But ah! 'tis a scene that is charming to me,

For here my Beloved has been.

And methinks on these shores I could linger all day,
Regardless of Winter's bleak wind:

For amid the dark prospect and wearisome way
His image would start to my mind.

Perhaps he has trod in the path I now tread,
Dejectedly musing alone:

And haply for me a fond tear he has shed,
When he thought on the days that are gone.

O days of illusion! why fled ye so fast?

Ye were like to sweet dreams that beguile; For Love threw a veil o'er the future and past, And Reflection was silent the while.

O days of illusion! still dear to my heart,
Your remembrance I faithfully keep;

What tho' at the light of conviction I start,
Tho' I wake from my vision and weep!

And did my Beloved e'er sorrow for me?
Did he sigh to behold me again,

When he wander'd alone on the banks of the sea,
Or ascended yon mountainous plain?

Ah yes! 'mid these scenes I was dear to his heart, Nor could absence my image remove ;

Nor could chilling Indifference her torpor impart, While Solitude smil'd upon Love.

But, alas! to fine cities he hasten'd away,
And Indifference awaited him there,

For soon he could seek the abodes of the gay,
And could gaze with delight on the fair.

Ah beautiful ladies, I envy your lot!

Ye are near him! Ye hear his sweet voice! He dwells on your graces, while I am forgot, And, while I am sad, ye rejoice!

But wherefore did Jealousy whisper that thought? For he values not beauty alone;

Nor forgets the fond heart, with pure tenderness fraught,

That Sympathy binds to his own.

And soon to the hills of the south I shall go,
And I'll search if I cannot descry

Where he dwells, 'mid those fanes, in the vallies below,
That glitter so bright in the sky.

For 'twill soothe my sad bosom to think he is near,
Though I never should see him again;

And there, while I wander, I'll check ev'ry tear,
Nor even to Echo complain.

Yet to think on the blessings that might have been mine;

-Ah! even now the tear starts to my eye:
It falls, a fond tribute, on Sympathy's shrine,
With Hope's trembling, last-lingering sigh.

And no more will I weakly repine at my state,
Nor cast from me the goods that are given;
But seek for Contentment, whatever my fate,
And bow to the mandates of Heaven!

N. S. S. L.

EPIGRAM.

SQUANDER, Who ne'er thro' sickness kept his bed,
Ties up his knocker:-doleful, dismal sight!
-Not that he trembles for an aching head,
But clamorous Duns the Neighbours may affright!

ODE TO THE SKY-LARK.

SWEETEST warbler of the skies,
Soon as morning's purple dyes
O'er the eastern mountains float,
Waken'd by thy merry note,
Thro' the fields of yellow corn,
That Mersey's winding banks adorn,
O'er green meads I gaily pass,
And lightly brush the dewy grass.

I love to hear thy matin lay,
And warbling wild notes die away;
I love to mark thy upward flight,
And see thee leffen from my sight:
Then, ended thy sweet madrigal,
Sudden swift I see thee fall,

With wearied wing, and beating breast,
Near thy chirping younglings' nest.

Ah! who that hears thee carol free Those jocund notes of liberty, And sees thee independent soar, With gladsome wing, the blue sky o'er, In wiry cage would thee restrain,

To pant for liberty in vain ;

And see thee 'gainst thy prison grate
Thy little wings indignant beat,
And peck and flutter round and round
Thy narrow, lonely, hated bound;
And yet not ope thy prison door,
To give thee liberty once more.

None! none! but he whose vicious eye
The charms of Nature can't enjoy;
Who dozes those sweet hours away,
When thou begin'st thy merry lay;
And 'cause his lazy limbs refuse
To tread the meadow's morning dews,
And there thy early wild notes hear,
He keeps thee lonely prisoner.
Not such am I, sweet warbler; no,
For should thy strains as sweetly flow,
As sweetly flow, as gaily sound,
Within thy prison's wiry bound,

As when thou soar'st with lovers' pride,
And pour'st thy wild notes far and wide,
Yet still depriv'd of every scene,

The yellow lawn, the meadow

green,

The hawthorn bush besprent with dew,
The skyey lake, the mountain blue,
Not half the charms thou'dst have for
Ás ranging wide at liberty.

LIVERPOOL, APRIL 6, 1797.

me,

WILLIAM SMYTHE.