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JOHN SCOTT.

ODE.

Written in Winter.
WHI

HILE in the sky black clouds impend,

And fogs arise, and rains descend,
And one brown prospect opens round
Of leafless trees and furrow'd ground;
Save where unmelted spots of snow
Upon the shaded hill-side show;

While chill winds blow, and torrents roll,
The scene disgusts the sight, depresses all the soul.

Yet worse what polar climates share-
Vast regions, dreary, bleak, and bare!
There, on an icy mountain's height,
Seen only by the moon's pale light,
Stern Winter rears his giant form,
His robe a mist, his voice a storm :

His frown the shivering-nations fly,
And hid for half the year in smoky caverns lie.
Yet there the lamp's perpetual blaze
Can pierce the gloom with cheering rays;
Yet there the heroic tale or song
Can urge the lingering hours along ;
Yet there their hands with timely care
The kajako and the dart prepare,

On summer seas to work their way, And wage the wat'ry war, and make the seals

their prey. Too Delicate! reproach no more The seasons of thy native shore There soon shall Spring descend the sky, With smiling brow and placid eye; A primrose-wreath surrounds her hair, Her green robe floats upon the air; And, scatter'd from her liberal hand, Fair blossoms deck the trees, fair flowers adorn the land.

# A Greenland fishing-boat.

SIR JOHN HENRY MOORE, BART.

ABSENCE.-AN ELEGY.

THE
HE gairish sunbeams slowly fade away,

The dew-drop hangs upon the moisten'd rose, Soft twilight thinly spreads her mantle grey,

And brings to patient poverty repose.
But not on me the night's still shades bestow

Peace or repose; while, banish'd from thy sight, I brood in silence o'er my secret woe,

And count the day's slow hours, and live-long night. But thou, for whose dear sake unheard I grieve,

Say, does my Delia deign one thought on me? That gentle softness sure could ne'er deceive

The faithful heart, that throbs alone for thee.No, my soul's treasure, thou art good as fair!

Forget, forgive thy lover's frantic fear;
Who doats, adores thee,-yet, with jealous care,

Starts! and beholds some happier rival near. 0, dearer far than fortune, fame, or friends,

Dearer than life, than health, than liberty ; Reflect, that on thy will alone depends

All of my future bliss or misery. Believe these heartfelt sighs, these speaking tears,

Pity the pangs of maddening jealousy; And think, ah think! who never felt these fears

Has never lov'dor never lov'd like me. But oh! my Delia, will thy tender care

Dispel each doubt that clouds my anxious mind? Say, will my Delia's lips again declare,

That she is ever constant, ever kind? Yes, yes, they will :-Ev'n now, with kind concern,

She chides the slow-pac'd loitering hours away, And gently blames her lover's slow return,

And looks, and waits, and wonders at his stay.

350 SIR JOHN HENRY MOORE, BART. Each air-form'd spectre anxious absence drew,

When fondly musing on thy heavenly charms; Malicious fancy to my tortur'd view Gave those sweet beauties to another's arms.

-One smile from thee shall give them to the wind;My raptur'd heart, from storms of passion free, Again adore thee, lovely, good, and kind,

Nor own another wish, when bless'd with thee.

1

THE DEBTOR. CHII NHILDREN of Affluence, hear a poor man's

pray'r; O haste, and free me from this dungeon's gloom! Let not the hand of comfortless despair

Sink my grey hairs with sorrow to the tomb ! Unus'd Compassion's tribute to demand,

With clamorous din wake Charity's dull ear, Wring the slow aid from Pity's loitering hand,

Weave the feign'd tale, or drop the ready tear: Far different thoughts employ'd my early hours,

To views of bliss, to scenes of affluence born; The hand of pleasure strew'd my path with flow'rs,

And every blessing hail'd my youthful morn. But ah, how quick the change !--the morning gleam,

That cheer'd my fancy with her magic ray, Fled like the gairish pageant of a dream,

And sorrow clos'd the evening of my day. Such is the lot of human bliss below!

Fond hope awhile the trembling floweret rears; Till unforeseen descends the blight of woe,

And withers in an hour the pride of years. In evil hour, to specious wiles a prey,

I trusted :-(who from faults is always free?) And the short progress of one fatal day

Was all the space 'twixt wealth and poverty..

SIR JOHN HENRY MOORE, BART. 351 Where could I seek for comfort, or for aid ?

To whom the ruins of my state commend? Left to myself, abandon'd, and betray'd,

Too late I found, the wretched have no friend! E'en he aniid the rest, the favour'd youth,

Whose vows had met the tenderest warm return, Forgot his oaths of constancy and truth,

And left my child in solitude to mourn. Pity in vain stretch'd forth her feeble hand

To guard the sacred wreaths that Hymen wove, While pale-eyed Avarice, from his sordid stand,

Scowl'd o'er the ruins of neglected love. Though deeply hurt, yet, sway'd by decent pride,

She hush'd her sorrows with becoming art, And faintly strove with sickly smiles to hide

The canker-worm that prey'd upon her heart. Nor blam'd his cruelty-nor wish'd to hate

Whom once she lov'd-but pitied, and forgave : Then unrepining yielded to her fate,

And sunk in silent anguish to the grave.. Children of affluence, hear a poor man's pray'r!

O haste, and free me from this dungeon's gloom! Let not the hand of comfortless despair

Sink my grey hairs with sorrow to the tomb!

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SIR WILLIAM JONES.

LAURA,

An Elegy from Petrarch.

I
N this fair season, when the whispering gales

Drop showers of fragrance o'er the bloomy vales,
From bower to bower the vernal warblers play ;
The skies are cloudless, and the meads are gay;
The nightingale in many a melting strain
Sings to the groves, 'Here Mirth and Beauty reign.'
But me, for ever bath'd in gushing tears,
No mirth enlivens, and no beauty cheers :
The birds that warble, and the flowers that bloom,
Relieve no more this solitary gloom.
I see where late the verdant meadow smild,
A joyless desert, and a dreary wild :-
For those dear eyes, that pierc'd my heart before,
Are clos'd in death, and charm the world no more:
Lost are those tresses, that outshone the morn,
And pale those cheeks, that might the skies adorn,
Ah, death! thy hand has cropp'd the fairest flower,
That shed its smiling rays in beauty's bower;
Thy dart has laid on yonder sable bier
All my soul lov'd, and all the world held dear;
Celestial sweetness, love-inspiring youth,
Soft-ey'd benevolence, and white-rob'd truth.

Hard fate of man, on whom the heavens bestow A drop of pleasure for a sea of woe! Ah, life of care, in fears or hopes consum'd, Vain hopes, that wither ere they well have bloom'd! How oft, emerging from the shades of night, Laughs the gay morn, and spreads a purple light: But soon the gathering clouds o'ershade the skies, Red lightnings play, and thundering storms arise! How oft a day, that fair and mild appears, Grows dark with fate, and mars the toil of years !

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