Where from the gothic casement's height, We viewed the lake, the park, the dale, And still, though tears obstruct our sight, We lingering look a last farewell. O'er fields through which we used to run, And spend the hours in childish play; O'er shades where, when our race was done, Reposing on my breast you lay; While I, admiring, too remiss, Forgot to scare the hovering flies, Yet envied every fly the kiss It dared to give your slumbering eyes: See still the little painted bark, In which I rowed you o'er the lake; See there, high waving o'er the park, The elm I clambered for your sake. These times are past- our joys are gone, You leave me, leave this happy vale; These scenes I must retrace alone; Without thee what will they avail? Who can conceive, who has not proved, This is the deepest of our woes, For this these tears our cheeks bedew; This is of love the final close, Oh, God, the fondest, last adieu! ON THE DEATH OF MR. FOX. THE FOLLOWING ILLIBERAL IMPROMPTU APPEARED IN A MORNING PAPER: "OUR nation's foes lament on Fox's death, But bless the hour when PITT resigned his breath: These feelings wide, let sense and truth unclue, We give the palm where Justice points its due." TO WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THESE PIECES Он, factious viper! whose envenomed tooth For noble spirits "war not with the dead:" He, too, is fallen, who Britain's loss supplied, Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil. THE CORNELIAN. No specious splendor of this stone With lustre only once it shone, And blushes modest as the giver. Some, who can sneer at friendship's ties, Yet still the simple gift I prize,— For I am sure the giver loved me. He offered it with downcast look, This pledge attentively I viewed, Still, to adorn his humble youth, Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield; But he who seeks the flowers of truth, Must quit the garden for the field. "Tis not the plant upreared in sloth, Which beauty shows, and sheds perfume; The flowers which yield the most of both In Nature's wild luxuriance bloom. Had Fortune aided Nature's care, But had the goddess clearly seen, His form had fixed her fickle breast; Her countless hoards would his have been, And none remained to give the rest. TO CAROLINE. WHEN I hear you express an affection so warm, Yet still, this fond bosom regrets while adoring, That the time must arrive, when, no longer retaining Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to the breeze, When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining, Prove nature a prey to decay and disease. "Tis this, my beloved, which spreads gloom o'er my features, Though I ne'er shall presume to arraign the decree Which God has proclaimed as the fate of his creatures, In the death which one day will deprive you of me. Mistake not, sweet sceptic, the cause of emotion, |