No green wood whispering sooths the sense of

pain!

And, while, at distance seen, the vivid train Of pleasures thrill my fluttering heart no more, O PRATT! can e'en thy " SYMPATHY❞ restore Life's opening bloom, or call back youth again? R. POLEWHELE.

To the AUTHOR of SYMPATHY,
A POE M.

ON Scar's lov'd banks, a stream unknown to

fame,

That wildly winds this tangled dell along, Where oft I feel the Muse's hallow'd flame, And glow enraptur'd with her Attic song;

And oft her awful high-wrought strains recall, As o'er the stage in tragic robe she sweeps, With terror fraught the shuddering soul t'appal,

Whilst Pity, soften'd with her sorrows, weeps:

For Avon's Bard this chaplet let me twine, Culling one branch from her immortal wreath! For, tender Bard, impassion'd HEART is thine, And THOUGHTS that warm from social feel

Vivid and bright as thy ideas glow,

[ing breathe:

[parts,

Thy magic verse th' enlivening flame imFrom thee to us the strong emotions flow, And, ere aware, we feel them in our hearts.

E'en those who read but to amuse the hour

Catch from thy page sensations more refin'd; And, sweet Enthusiast, wonder at thy pow'r, Which so expands their souls to all mankind,

Go then, in Virtue's cause the passions move, And SELF to gen'rous-glowing soCIAL raise; Be this thy meed, the good and wise approve, And BEATTIE's sanction ratifies the praise. R. POTTER.

SYMPATHY.

BOOK I.

O'ER yon fair lawn, where oft in various talk

The fav'ring Muses join'd our evening walk,
Up yonder hill that rears its crest sublime,
Oft were we wont, with gradual steps to climb,
To hear the lark her earliest matin sing,
And woo the dew-bath'd zephyrs on the wing.

Fast by yon shed, of roots and verdure made, How oft we paus'd, companions of the shade, In yonder cot, just seated on the brow, [low! Whence, unobserv'd, we view'd the world be

Well pleas'd, we cull'd fit objects for our song, From land or ocean, widely stretch'd along : The morning vapours, passing through the vale, The distant turret, or the lessening sail,

The pointed cliff, which overhangs the main, The breezy upland, or the opening plain, The misty traveller, yet dimly seen,

And every hut which neighbours on the green, Or down yon foot-way we explored the stream, Whose little rills ran tinkling to the theme, Which seem'd to sympathize with Hammond's Or lapse responsive to the lyre of Gray; [lay, O'er these dear bounds, like one forlorn, I [home.

roam,

O'er these dear bounds, I fondly call'd my

And yet to touch me various powers combine, Where summer revels with a warmth divine;

* Langford Court, in Somersetshire, the seat of the Rev. Mr. WHALLEY.