She seiz'd his hand, and ah ! she cried,
Wilt thou, to camps and war a ftranger,
Desert thy Mary's faithful side,

And bare thy life to every danger!

Yet go, brave youth! to arms away!
My maiden hands for fight shall dress thee,
And when the drum beats far away,

I'll drop a silent tear, and bless thee !
The bugles through the forest wind,
The woodland soldier's call to battle;
Be some protecting angel kind,

And guard thy life when cannon's rattle.
She said and as the rose appears
In sun-shine when the storm is over,
A smile beam'd sweetly through her tears,
The blush of promise to her lover.

There is not a line in this little poem that does not bear the impression of genius and taste; the sentiments make a strong appeal to the heart, and the numbers glide in the stream of melody.

In the "Flight of Fancy," Mr. Clifton has displayed some of those creative powers which are the sine qua non of the poet. In several quatrains he is remarkable for his delicacy and elegance, and there is one sublime. Ut pidura poesis is a maxim faithfully observed in this poem. A few passages will evince this; the poet thus describes the retirement he covets.

Extended wide, the diverse scene

My happy casement shall command,
The busy farm, the pasture green,
And tufts where shelter'd hamlets stand.

The fairies thro' my walks shall roam,
And sylphs inhabit every tree;
Come Ariel, subtlest spirit, come,
I'll find a blossom there for thee.

From crag to crag, with devious sweep,
Some frantick flood shall headlong go,
And bursting o'er the dizzy steep,
Shall slumber in the lake below.

The muse shall hail, at peep of dawn,
Melodiously, the coming day;
At eve her song shall sooth the lawn,
And with the mountain echoes play.
'Tis mine! 'tis mine! the sacred grove,
Where truth and beauty may recline;
The sweet resort of many a love,
Monimia, come, and make it thine.
For thee the bursting buds are ripe,
The whistling robin calls thee here,
To thee complains the woodland pipe,
Will not my lov'd Monimia hear?
A fawn I'll bring thee gentle maid,

To gambol round thy pleasant door ;
I'll cull thee wreaths that ne'er shall fade;
What shall I say to tempt thee more?

Who, on reading those verses, does not lament that editions are multiplied in our cities of the works of the drivelling Strangford, and the prurient Moore, while the productions of Clifton, who possesses a thousand times more passion, without ever outstepping the boundaries of modesty, lie on the peaceful shelf of the bookseller.—O mores ↓

THE MINSTREL.

TO SENSIBILITY.

HAIL, nymph of sweetly tender thought!
Lov'd source of bliss, with rapture fraught,
Of sympathetick woe;
O come, within my throbbing heart,
Bid love reside, or grief impart
Soft Pity's melting throe.

For, mid her deep distastrous scene,
Thou lov'st to show thy pensive mien,
Thy dewy glist'ning eye,
And mid wild Mis'ry's naked shed
To lie, and, weeping, raise her head,
And heave the plaintive sigh.

Blest be that hour, forever blest,
When first my lenient hand repress'd
The pang of fell despair;
When first, whilst thou convuls'd my frame,
In artless garb the muses came,

With sweet and winning air.

Then rush'd upon my thrilling soul
Those scenes that, form'd by Fancy, roll,
Athwart the poet's view;

What time, when fire-ey'd Rapture raves,
Deep, deep, his ample spirit laves -
Amid Aonian dew.

Thou know'st, dear maid! from early youth,
To thee I've vow'd eternal truth,

Each trembling pulse is thine;

To thee first lisp'd my accents rude,
And oft my starting tear bedew'd
Thy lowly moss-built shrine,

Here, as the bard, with drooping wreath
Lone seeks the dewy vale to breathe
Deep Sorrow's plaintive lay,

Slow from the sad complaining breeze,
Thy form, soft blushing, rapt he sees
Each melting charm display.

Thine eyes with pity fraught, and love,
Amid whose blue, quick-glancing, rove
Warm Hope and young Desire;
While oft as Pleasure rose to view,
Bright beaming, from their orbits flew
Wild Rapture's sweetest fire.

Thy cheek, with roseate bloom suffus'd,
Thy lip, whose ruby tint diffus'd
Pure quintessence of bliss,

Where ever waits sincerity,
Soft love, and eager ecstacy,
The balmy fragrant kiss.

Thine hair, of lightly auburn hue,
That floating o'er thy bosom drew
Its wildly wanton way,
Or down thy shoulders clust'ring hung,
Or to the whisp❜ring zephyrs flung,
In sport and am❜rous play.

Thy limbs, in snowy vest array'd,
Oft chastely, through the folds, display'd,
Tho' bound with roseate zone :
Thine hand, o'er which was careless flung
Th' Molian harp, sad warbling, strung
To love's pathetick tone.

Whose sounds so melancholy roll,
So sweet, so tender o'er the soul,
Expressive all and wild,

Struck by the beings of the air,
Now swell'd to love, to grief, despair,
Now sunk to pity mild.

Oh, lovely maid! to thee belong
The deeply moving plaintive song,
The sad, the tearful tale;

To thee, the virgin's soft desire,
To thee, the youth's bold am'rous fire,
And Mis'ry's frantick wail.

Inspir'd by thee, sung Pella's bard,*
Blest with thy favour'd, fond regard,
His woe-empassion'd lay:

See, the lov'd, faithful, tender wife!
Ah! see, she faints! the breath of life,
Yet panting, hastes away.

Dead in her husband's arms she lies!
O hark! what loud, what lab'ring sighs
Upheave his troubled breast:

Ah! cease, thou lovely child! nor shriek,
Come kiss, O kiss her clay-cold cheek,
Still to his bosom prest.

Thou too mid Otway's scenes display'd
Thy charming, vital, heavenly aid,
Thy soul-distracting song;

Still on wild Arun's sedgy side,
Sweet melancholy voices glide
At eve the woods along.

For there in thine and Pity's cave,
Wash'd by the gentle murm'ring wave,
Ye nurs'd his infant years:
Oft would he rove the shadowy plain,
Sad Arun heard the pensive strain,
And caught his trickling tears.

And thine, Rousseau's love-breathing thought,
With tender trembling ardour fraught,
With soft, tumultuous bliss:

*Euripides.