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Now lightsome o'er the level mead,
Where midnight fairies rove;
Like them the jocund dance we'll lead,
Or tune the reed to love.
For see! the rosy May draws migh,
She claims a virgin queen;
And hark! the happy shepherds cry,
'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.

TO DREAMS.

A SONNET. ,
By MISS MARY JULIA YOUNG.
Hail gentle spirits, who, with magic wing,
Chase the dark clouds of sullen night away;
And from her murky cave, my freed soul bring,
To revel in the radiant beams of day!

What are you, say? or earthly, or divine,
Who thus can cheer the pause of dull repose?

With chemic art the dross of sleep refine,
And beauteous scenes to curtain'd eyes disclose.

What are you, who, subduing time and space,
To bless the moments, can a friend restore?
I hear that voice—behold that form—that face,
And grateful own—your power can give no more.
Hail gentle spirits! to whose guardian care
I owe such bliss—yet know not what you are.

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Occasioned by a Lady's being alarmed at a mad Woman, known by that appellation.

Wux fair maid, in ev'ry feature,
Are such signs of fear express'd?
Can a wand'ring wretched creature
With such terrors fill thy breast?
Do my frenzied looks alarm thee?
Trust me, sweet—thy fears are vain;
Not for kingdoms would I harm thee,
Shun not then poor Crazy Jane.

Dost thou weep to see my anguish?
Mark me! and avoid my woe;
When men flatter, sigh, and languish,
Think them false-I found them so:
For I lov’d—oh so sincerely,
None could ever love again;
But the youth I lov’d so dearly,
Stole the wits of Crazy Jane.

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From that hour has reason never
Held her empire o'er my brain;

Henry fled—with him for ever
Fled the wits of Crazy Jane.

Now forlorn and broken-hearted,
And with frenzied thoughts beset;
On that spot where last we parted,
On that spot where first we met.
Still I sing my love-lorn ditty,
Still I slowly pace the plain;
While each passer by in pity
Cries—God help thee, Crazy Jane!

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I would not have you, Strephon, chuse a mate
From too exalted, or too mean a state;
For in both these we may expect to find,
A creeping spirit, or a haughty mind.
Who moves within the middle region shares
The least disquiets, and the smallest cares;
Let her extraction with true lustre shine,
If something brighter, not too bright for thine;
Her education liberal, not great;
Neither inferior; nor above her state.

Let her have wit, but let that wit be free
From affectation, pride, and pedantry;
For the effect of woman's wit is such,
Too little is as dangerous as too much;
But chiefly let her humour close with thine,
Unless where yours does to a fault incline;
The least disparity in this destroys,
Like sulph'rous blasts, the very buds of joys.
Her person amiable, straight, and free, -
From natural, or chance deformity:
Let not her years exceed, if equal thine,
For women past their vigour soon decline.
Her fortune competent; and if thy sight
Can reach so far, take care 'tis gather'd right:
If thine's enough, then hers may be the less;
Do not aspire to riches in excess;
For that which makes our lives delightful prove,
Is a genteel sufficiency and love.

THE FUNERAL PROCESSION.
BY B LA IR.

But see! the well-plum'd hearse comes nodding on,
Stately and slow, and properly attended
By the whole sable tribe, that painful watch
The sick man's door and live upon the dead,

By letting out their persons by the hour
To mimic sorrow, when the heart's not sad!
How rich the trappings, now they're all unfurl’d
And glittering in the sun! Triumphant entries
Of conquerors, and coronation pomps,
In glory scarce exceed. Great gluts of people
Retard the unwieldy show; whilst from the casements,
And houses tops, ranks behind ranks close wedg'd
Hang bellying o'er. But tell us, why this waste?
Why this ado in earthing up a carcase
That's fallen into disgrace, and in the nostril
Smells horrible? Ye undertakers! tell us,
"Midst all the gorgeous figures you exhibit,
Why is the principal conceal’d, for which
You make this mighty stiro–'Tis wisely done:
What would offend the eye in a good picture,
The painter casts discreetly into shades.

ELEGIAC STANZAS.

ON HEARING THE TOLLING OF A BELL.
BY The Rev. Min. RIVERS.

A pensive sadness overwhelms my soul,
And fills my mind with melancholy dread;

For, hark' I hear the solemn awful toll,
That leads my thoughts to contemplate the dead.

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