No! true Content alone her gifts bestows
On breasts with love of native virtue fir'd;
On those pure minds where ardent nature glows,
Where vice is loath'd, but virtuous deeds admir'd.
May 12, 1801.

PAULINA,

ATLINIA,

A Pastoral.

As through the grove Atlinia I pursu’d,
By Hope embolden'd,' on Love's wings convey'd,
The flying fair with fleetest glance I view'd,
But Love allur'd, while fruitless hope betray'd,
Ah! conscious Innocence, I then exclaim'd,
Has native Virtue left thee still untam'd?

Tell me, blythe Zephyr, as you pass me by,
Wilt thou more nimbly chace the flying fair ́?
Wilt thou, the bearer of a love-fraught sigh,

Exact access t' Atlinia's tender care?
Bid her exclude each coy coquettish thought ›
Tho beauty flies, it flies but to be caught.

Ye opening hyacinths, that scent the vale,
Soon as Atlinia treads thy balmy shade
Resign thy odour, and to sickly pale

Convert thy hue, resign thy pow'rs, and fade:
But, as the gales disperse thy rich perfume,
Teach her that beauty bears no second bloom.

Ye woods, where solitude, in peaceful reign,
Revolves through wisdom's unfrequented maze;
Where Fancy leads her variegated train,
And teeming thought imagin'd scenes surveys:
Oft have
ye witness'd my pathetic theme,
And my fair echo'd, as thy fav'rite name.

My mourning flocks refuse the pearly soil,
And, widely scatter'd, raise their pensive bleat;
No more they gain Atlinia's cheering smile,
No longer shelter'd from the noon-tide heat.

Yet thus they murmur as they heedless stray,[
Their shepherd's more unhappy still than they.

Then list, Atlinia, to a voice sincere,

Nor cloud the landscape of my early joys;
New fangled fancy, like intrusive care,

Is most alluring, when it most destroys
Fly not thy flocks, nor leave thy friend behind-
If thoud'st be charming, be sincere and kind.

Plymouth. 'i

VERSES,

O. B.

WRITTEN AT THE TOMB OF GRAY.

RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO MR. PENN.*
HERE, by mourning Fancy led,

The pensive traveller oft shall stray,
To muse around the hallow'd spot,
Where sleep the cold remains of Gray)
His breast, with softest pity fraught,
Shall heave the tender thrilling sigh;
And grateful men'ry fondly shed
The tear of heart-felt sympathy.
Reflection, with her weeping train,
And pious Friendship, oft appear,
And sorrow-soothing Hope is seen,
With sad Regret, a hermit here.
Ah, what avail the powers of song,
And why has worth so short a date?

Sure all the talents Nature gives,

Serve but to gild the gloom of fate.

Mark, yon meteor's vivid track

Athwart the dun expanse of night;
More swift than space-controlling thought,
It mocks the keen pursuit of sight.

So bright and transient is the span,
Alas! too oft to Genius given,

Soon to empyrean air it mounts,

To join its kindred sons of heaven.

This Gentleman has, at his own expence, erected an elegant cenotaph, not fat from the church-yard of Stoke Pogis, where tlie body of Gray was buried.

X X-VOL. XVI.

Hark! again his lyre is heard,-
"Tis but the sound in Fancy's ear,
Harp'd to the lone enthusiast,

In modulations bold and clear.

Again! high jubilee friendship holds,
The mingling strains exulting flow;
With thine, O West,* his soul unites
In sweet oblivion of woe.

Ye sacred visions, holy joys!
And are ye virtue's future lot?
Sooth'd by the dear ecstatic hope,
Be friend-bereaving woes forgot.
Adieu, thrice consecrated spot,

To feeling, taste, and fancy dear;
May ev'ry flower and fragrant breath
Effuse its balmy odours here.

Oh, had I but his matchless art
T'unfold the feelings of my breast,
While fondly o'er his grave I bend,
To bid his gentle spirit rest;
Consenting breezes soft would blow,
In plaintive murmurs, o'er his head;
And dewy tears of sorrow fall,

And Nature's self lament the dead.

COMMEMCEMENT OF A POEM

On DESPAIR.

J. T.

SOME to Aönian lyres of silver sound
With winning elegance attune their song,
Form'd to sink lightly on the soothed sense,
And charm the soul with softest harmony;
"Tis then that Hope with sanguine eye
Roving thro' Fancy's gay futurity;

is seen,

Her heart light dancing to the sounds of pleasure,
Pleasure of days to come-Mem❜ry too then
Comes with her sister, Melancholy sad,

* A particular friend of Gray, whose loss he bewails in an elegant sonnet, pregnant with the tenderest sensibility, and rich with poetic Imagery.

Pensively musing on the scenes of youth,
Scenes never to return.*

Such subjects merit poets us'd to raise
The attic verse harmonious, but for me

A dreadlier theme demands my backward hand,
And bids me strike the strings of dissonance
With frantic energy.

'Tis wan Despair I sing; if sing I can,

Of him before whose blast the voice of song,
And mirth, and hope, and happiness all fly,
Nor ever dare return. His notes are heard
At noon of night, where, on the coast of blood,
The lacerated son of Angola

Howls forth his suff'rings to the moaning wind;
And, when the awful silence of the night
Strikes the chill death-dew to the murd'rer's heart,
He speaks in every conscience-prompted word
Half uttered, half suppress'd.—

'Tis him I sing-Despair-terrific name,
Striking unsteadily the tremulous chord

Of tim'rous terror-Discord in the sound:
For to a theme revolting as is this,
Dare not I woo the maids of Harmony,
Who love to sit and catch the soothing sound
Of lyre Æolian, or the martial bugle,
Calling the hero to the field of glory,

And firing them with deeds of high emprise
And warlike triumph: but from scenes like mine

Shrink they affrighted, and detest the bard

Who dares to sound the hollow tones of horror.
Hence then, soft maids,

And woo the silken Zephyr in the bow'rs
By Heliconia's sleep-inviting stream;
For aid like yours I seek not; 'tis for pow'rs
Of darker hue t' inspire a verse like mine!
'Tis work for wizards, sorcerers, and fiends!

Hither, ye furious imps of Acheron,
Nurslings of hell, and beings shunning light,
And all the myriads of the burning concave :
Souls of the damned. Hither oh! come and join
Th' infernal chorus. 'Tis Despair I sing!
He, whose sole tooth inflicts a deadlier pang,

* Alluding to the two pleasing poems, the Pleasures of Hope and of Memory.

XX2

Than all your tortures join'd, Sing, sing Despair!
Repeat the sound, and celebrate his pow'r ;
Unite shouts, screams, and agonizing shrieks,
Till the loud paan ring thro' hell's high vault,'
And the remotest spirits of the deep

Leap from the lake, and join the dreadful song.
Nottingham.

MEMORANDA DRAMATICA, &c.'

H. K. WHITE.

Our room will not permit us to mention the novelties of the past month at any length. We shall offer a few brief remarks upon some of the performances, and the remainder must be postponed till

next month.

COVENT-GARDEN.

Ocr. 6.-Douglas, revived, as it was expressed in the bills, though with what propriety we are not aware, unless the manager considers as nothing the numerous representations of this popular tragedy which have taken place within these few years,---and revived, too, with such a languor of animation, that it relapsed instantaneously into its dormant state. We never remember to have

seen this play performed with so little effect. The house was but indifferently attended, and the acting in general was cold and fat, Mr. Kemble did an unwise as well as an unjust thing, in taking Old Norqal from Murray: it is the chef d'œuvre of that actor, and cannot be surpassed, for natural tenderness, and unaffected emotion. Mr. Kemble is utterly disqualified, both by nature and art, for a part of this description. His voice cannot assume those melting tones in which a man, borne down by years and laden with infirmities, would naturally relate a tale of distress; and the substitutes for pathos, which he borrows from art and study, are too obviously mechanical to awaken the sympathy of an audience. The decrepitude of body, too, was over-acted, while the voice in vain essayed to indicate the tremulousness of old age. The dress was quite original, and seemed to have been borrowed from the print of Auld Robin Gray, but it excited rather à ludicrous sensation, probably from its being too correct. The stage will not always admit of exact costume. Upon the whole, we think it will be an act of prudence in Mr. Kemble not to repeat a performance which can do him no credit, and may justly expose him to the severest critical reprehension. Mr. Cooke conceived the part of Glenalvon with accuracy and boldness; but the lofty demeanour of the Scotish chieftain was occasionally wanting, and his subtlety was not sufficiently imposing. Murray was doomed to suffer degradation as well as insult. He performed Lord Randolph, and, as if to make himself amends for the indignity he was this night sustaining, he heaped Pelion upon Ossa, in the passages applicable to the present political exigency. It was distressing to see a respectable performer make the judicious grieve in a character beneath his rank as an actor, while another admirable tragedian was exposing himself in a part to which the Lord Randolph of the night had frequently done such perfect justice. Mr. H. Siddons and his mother we have noticed on a former occasion, in Douglas and Larty Randolph."