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SELECT POETRY.

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At Bion's death the trees forget to bloom,
And fading flow'rets sigh the poet's doom.
No more the shepherd or the swain de-
rives
[hives.

Milk from the flocks, or honey from the
Renew, Sicilian maids, the mournful
strain,

And tell his death, and all my woes again.
No annual birds, still flying round his tomb,
Four'd the big tear, and wept their Mem-
mon's doom;

As now their listless wings they drooping

spread,

And chirp the plaintive note for Bion dead.

Begin the mournful strain, Sicilian Nine, And strew the funeral honours round his shrine...

The woodland warblers, whom he taught to sing, [Spring, When first the blossoms told the coming Each tell their Bion's praise; the woods obey, And ring responsive to the grateful láy.

Sicilian maids, the tale of woe prolong; But who shall sing the verse that Bion sung? Ah! who like thee can pour the strain divine,

Or cheer the woods with melody like thine? Thy rural pipe still bears thy lingering [in death;

breath.

Though its lov'd master's lips are clos'd
To Pan I bear that pipe, and Pan shall pour
A strain less sweet, less lovely than before.
Renew, Sicilian maids, the mournful
strain,

And tell his death, and all my woes again.
For Galatea weeps, that she no more
Can hear the soft notes murm'ring on the
shore.

No Cyclops' strains thy magic pipe pour-
tray'd
[maid);

But when she heard her Bion's pipe display (From Cyclops' strains had fled the lovely Its artless sounds, and breathe the rustic lay, She drew more near; and since her favour

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For milder lays his matchless lyre was He told of rural Pan; of shepherd swains, And Blocks disporting on the verdant plains; 'Twas his to breathe the pipe's melodious sound; [around.

“AI AI. in the leaves of the violet or He sung of Love, and call'd the Loves hyacinth,"

S. R. A.

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Favour'd of Heav'nwith its indulgent smiles,
With what peculiar lustre rose that morn,
Apollo's son on thy domain was born!
The bright pervading god who gilds the day
Resplendent darted his unclouded ray :
Minerva clasp'd the Infant in her arms,
She gaz'd euraptur'd on his early charms!
She press'd him often fondly to her breast,
Infus'd her wisdom, and by turns caress'd:
Soon for the smiling boy the Muses strove,
Each gain'd a pupil, each engag'd his love;
Scarce had two lustres fled with winged
speed,
[his head*;
When Shakspeare's genius hover'd o'er
The Graces finish'd what the Nine began,
And gave the world the all-accomplish'd
Man!

Virtue allures him with engaging charms;
Her precepts pure his youthful bosom

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Say, can reflection on departed worth Revive the drooping soul whilst here on earth?

Can fond Imagination thus create

A balm for all the stern decrees of Fate?
If the fair boast of unpolluted fame;
If the pure lustre of a spotless name;
If all that Virtue grasps within her span,
To fire the Soldier, and adorn the Man;
If these, in soothing accents, can impart
A pensive comfort to the bursting heart;
Oh! may they now administer relief,
Hush the fond throbbings of parental grief;
In tones of bosom-cheering language speak,
Repress the tear that stains a Sister's

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• Dicetur merita Nox quoque næniâ." Hor
I LOVE thee, Night; thy placid gloom
Suits well the temper of my breast;
When all is silent as the tomb,

And brother mortals sink to rest,
I love to pause with chilly fear
Upon thy silence to intrude,
The startled owl's loud whoop to hear,
As, scaring her with footstep rude,
I break upon her solitude.
Hark to the distant torrent's roar,
Upon the noiseless night-air borne;
The hum of man is heard no more,

He slumbers till the garish morn.
The darkness of the midnight breeze

Is fill'd with choicest sweets for meThe wind that whistles in the trees, The night-frog croaking from the lea, Are sounds of joy and jollityHeard you, from yonder moss-girt tower* The pealing of the deep-ton'd bellIt told the solemn midnight hour,

And sweet upon my ear it fell→ From yon lone copse, the prowling hound Answer'd each stroke with echoing bay; Rous'd at the fear-creating sound, The owlet, startled on her way, Ill-omen'd curs'd approaching dayLet others court the gaudy blaze, And sigh for morning's rosy dawnt, Sport in the Sun's returning rays, And wanton on the dewy lawn

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MY BOXEN BOWER.
By JOHN F. M. DOVASTON, Esq.
I LOVE my little boxen Bower
Fring'd with April's early flower;
On its leaves of glossy green

The climbing sunbeams shed their sheen;
Cool its shade, its shelter warm,

In Summer's heat, or Winter's storm:
The social and the lonely hour
Endear my little boxen Bower.

Within my little boxen Bower
- With friends I fill the social hour,

Or, wanting them, the feats unfold,
That Bards of Greece and Rome have told;
Or prove no meaner magic reigns
In Britain's more endearing strains:
Contentment sheds her sunny shower
Around my little boxen Bower.
Should I leave my boxen Bower,
Panting up the paths of Power,
Puff'd with empty pomp of Pride,
Blind Ambition for my guide,
Ev'n in Splendour's gaudy glare,
Cushion'd on the couch of Care,
Might I not bewail the hour,
I left my little boxen Bower?
Nursery, West-Felton. 1811.

A Seat shaded by a beautiful purple Beechtree, at the NURSERY, WEST FELTON, is thus inscribed:

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AN INTRODUCTORY SPEECH, School, June 26, 1811, [Speaks as entering]

:

THEN I am forc'd to introduce you all "How truly said, "The weakest goes to the wall." [Enters

I only told them 'twas a grievous task,
First to appear, and first your candour ask.
Could I be backward? No! 'twas pleasure
all;
[call.
For every nerve is strain'd when Parents
I was not backward; no, my breast was
fir'd,
[quir'd.

I knew you'd shew the candour we re-
I knew the Ladies virtuous, gentle, kind,
And ever prone to raise the timid mind.
I knew the Gentlemen had gracious hearts,
I knew they'd cheer us in our various parts;
My Master likewise told me you were such,
You'd smile on me, you'd favour'd him
so much.

But, O reflect! no Roscius now appears, To melt in love, or drown the stage with tears.

Our aim was not to bring a finish'd play, But each his lesson in a school-boy way. Then to our humble offering, welcome all; Do you but smile, our spirits rais'd no fall Shall ever know, but on, with hearts elate We'll show in miniature old Shylock's hate; Depict young Juba bound inCupid's chains, Whilst Virtue potent o'er his conduct reigns;

With Darwin sped across the Atlantic waves, Indignant view the trafficking of slaves; From tow'ring Milton show the apostate hurl'd [world.

With dreadful vengeance to the infernal And thou, blest shade of Collins, hover round,

Aid to depict the power of Musick's sound. And thou, blest Dryden, when thy beauteous style [smile. We dare to attempt, vouchsafe a gracious Our Parents' praise we 'll count our high

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Or should it still in native colours glow,
What fairer tinctures can the hand bestow?
What tho' the Lilies clust'ring in the vale,
And lowly Primrose, from their birth are
pale ?
[them drest
We deem them beauteous, nor would wish
In Tulip streaks, or gaily-chequer'd vest:
The virgin charms of Nature shrink away,
When Art obtrusive claims a mingled sway.
How vainly then she plies her vapid bloom
To teach expiring Beauty to resume
Health's roseate hue!-say, shall the pallid
cheek

'Neath borrow'd beauties for a refuge seek,
Yet mimic Love through all his wanton
ways,
[raise
And still to rapturous warmth the bosom
-In Delia's cheek, which love has taught

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LONE wanderer of the midnight sky,
I mark thee through mycasement gleam;
And, stretch'd upon a sleepless couch,
I bless thy paly beam!

Say, com'st thou here with silent foot,
When all is bush'd in deep repose,
To whisper to my troubled heart

A solace for its woes?

Oh, give to me that placid mien,
That tranced look as when on high
Thou pausest for awhile to drink

The spheres' wild harmony!
That Aitting blush !-sure, modest Queen,
Thron'd on thy fleecy clouds above,
The young God hath not with thy rays
Lighted his torch of Love?

Come, if thy soul has felt his power,

To me thou art a welcome guest;
For sportive he hath kindled too
A flame within this breast.
Yes, I will sympathize with thee,

(And mutual cares will each endear); Thy beams' discourse most eloquent, I'll answer with a tear.

Be Love our theme its visious warm,
Its balmy sighs, its secret joy-
Emotions trembling on the brink
Of bliss and agony.

Come, thou shalt say what rapture stole
O'er every sense at dead of night,
When first the breeze pour'd on thy ear,
Endymion and delight.

And I will tell if words can tell

Ob, uo! this throb and deep-fetch'd sigh Will best express the glance of love That darts from Mary's eye,

Oh, might that blue eye's tender languish, Beam but on me-what bliss were mine; 'Twould o'er my soul diffuse a ray

Of happiness divine.

But why that blush again, sweet maid?
Why 'thwart thy face so shining fair;
Roll clouds so dark that Fancy leads
In them the page of Care?

Alas, they say, Love 's but a dream,
Fleeting and few its happiest hours
That Life's at best a thorny wild,

Oh, never strew'd with flowers.

Sweet Moralist! I know it well

Man onward toils in pain and sorrow,
Yet fondly hopes a glimpse of joy
Will bless him on the morrow.

Vain, vain the hope;-yet should that glimpse

Strike on his mind, in mercy giv’n,
It but reveals the darkness round,
Like the lightning flash of Heav'n.
Still visit thou my lonely couch

To soothe my heart with woe opprest
And say the sleep of Death is sweet
To those who sigh for rest.
Dec. 14.

SONNET.

A. M.

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TANDEM divitias, et fuge limina

Nunquam urbis vacuæ vocibus, et sono
Vulgi; et semper honestis
Indignam invidiam viris.

Hic tempus faciles ducere per dies
Fas sit, dum trepidat Vere Favonius ;
Atque errare, per agros
Dulces, quà Tamesis fluit.

Hic puris decores tempora floribus.
Hic sertum roseum, aut hiç breve lilium
Carpas; fronde sub orni,

Quercus aut veteris sedens ;-
Dum curat pecudes, prataque tibiâ
Respondere docet pastor amoribus ;
Vel ramo canit atthis,
Lugens Ismarium nefas.

Haud atrox Tamesis sanguine, et horridus
Nigra morte fluit; semper amabili
Gaudet munere pacis ;

Et volvit placidas aquas.

Son htc turba virum; nescia sed doli
Insons simplicitas; et pudor omnibus
Divis charus, amore

Non turpi satus ; et fide.
Hic quisquis jaceat, fessus ab æstibus
Miratur tacitè,-" splendidior vitro,"
Rivus dum fluit agris;
Spargens dona virentibus.
Miratur bibulis impositam ilicem
Ripis; et salices frondibus ut leves
Gaudent tangere fluctus;

Prisci haud immemores boni;
Ut ridet labiis undique Copia
Lætis; ut gregibus dulcia dat nemus
Glandes, pabula ; et umbras
Frigentes domino gregum.
Jan. 14.

W. C. LANGTON.

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On sky-topt hill, or velvet plain,
Or flow'ry vale, or flowing main,
Or where her softer waters glide--
Ah! what are these to Nature's pride,
Where GoD, conducting Nature's plan,
Completes her noblest work in MAN ?

Childhood, dear Will, however blest,
Is a fair negative at best.
"Tis innocence personified,
Yet it is little else beside;

'Tis pure as mountain snow, and takes
The impression that a feather makes,
Yet, lighter than that feather's fall,
It leaves no lasting trace at all;
But, like the snow, the sun's first ray
The tender mark will melt away.

But when arriv'd at riper age,
Gaining of life its second stage,
When trackless Childhood yields to Youth,
And WISDOM comes led on by TRUTH;
On whom the CHARITIES attend
In forms of Neighbour, Son, and Friend:
Soon will these make thy bosom glow,
Till thou shalt wish more fast to grow;
Soon will they kindle Manhood's fires,
And all that manly hope inspires!.

O couldst thou guess what loftier joys Succeed to Childhood's transient toys; Tho' these now seem to fill thy breast, And scarce leave wishes for the rest; Thy wisdom drawn from fabled charms, Thy conquests from fictitious arms, Enraptur'd with thine own applause At every form thy Fancy draws; Castle, or Cot, or Town, or Ship, And now a bound, and now a skipYes-couldst thou think what varied worth Maturing Time might bring to birth, The power to soothe the sorrowing heart, To blunt the point of Envy's dart, The sick to help, the sad to cheer, And dry the Widow's, Orphan's tear: Fram'd as thon art with ardent mind, Emotions quick, and feelings kindIn spite of Manhood's stronger care, Thy heart would form a different prayer 5 Still more, the boast of tender friends Would point thy wish to nobler ends.

Soon wouldst thou see with glad surprize Thy fondest visions realize;

Thy inky boat, and pencil'd town,
Would like thyself, dear Boy, be grown ;
This to some warlike bark well-mann'd,
And thou appointed to command!

Or haply, by the Fates decreed,
Thou shalt some Admiral succeed!

Or, some fam'd General of the field,
Shalt prove thy Country's spear and shield
Then wish no more a Boy to be,
For ever dandled on the knee;
But as the Soldier's feats delight,
And thou art pleas'd with mimic fight,
Wish, Willy, thou wert six feet high,
Resolv'd on Death or Victory;
Or else a man of Peace, and know
All that may make thee lov'd below!
Stafford, Jan. 1.

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