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I may proceed in safety, for I am unobserved by all, except such wretches as are too much occupied by their own misery to regard me. “Those that mingle reason with your passion, “Must be content to think you old.”— Those who do not resign their feelings to passionate complaints, but correct the influence of those complaints with a due mixture of reason, must be satisfied with imputing them to the infirmity and waywardness of old age. “I will be the pattern of all patience, “I will say nothing.” Silence adds great sublimity to distress: this Dryden knew; when describing the sorrow of the Duke of York, at the death of his royal brother, he said, “Horror in all its pomp was there, “Mute and magnificent, without a tear.” &

‘You have seen, “Sunshine and rain at once—her smiles and tears “Were like a better day.” This passage has not been satisfactorily explained : it is, probably, corrupt:—the quarto reads, “better way.” Dr. Warburton's emendation appears the most plausible, “a wetter May.” I wish there were any authority for an April day, which would be exactly congruous, and is a simile so applied by Otway. - —“the beauteous Belvedera came weeping forth, “Shining thro' tears, like April suns in showers, “That labour to o'ercome the clouds that load them.”

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“And dizzy'tis, to cast one's eyes solow !"

Most readers, I believe, will concur with Addison in the general encomium he has pronounced on this speech; and “the poverty of that writer's wit,” in the instance quoted by Dr. Johnson, would be almost overlooked, had it not instigated the learned and acute editor, to a false and disingenuous remark. If the Doctor (to use his own words on another occasion) had been in quest of truth, he would plainly perceive the difference between a real object of terror, and a fictitious one. The objection, perhaps, might stand, if we could suppose the speaker to be really impressed with the terrors of the precipice which he is only artfully describing; but as Edgar had made a plausible representation, to deceive his father, the Doctor seems determined to play a similar trick on his confiding

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Hark! 'tis the cannon's horrid roar
The frighted earth again alarms;
The martial bands from Gallia's shore
Excite all England's sons to arms;
The thund'ring tube was scarcely cold,
The fatal hail scarce ceas'd to fly,
When Mars—“To arms ye brave and bold,
'Tis yours to conquer or to die!”

Scarce had the soldier and the tar
Inhal'd a breeze of native air,
Or mother wept o'er Henry's scar,
Or lover kiss'd his constant fair,
Or wife enjoy'd a mate's embrace,
Or child a father's beaming eye,
When through the air's unbounded space,
The alarm was, “Conquer, or we die.”

Scarce had the drum's discordant sound
Forborne the ambient air to rend,
Or lovely Peace, with olive crown'd,
Been welcom'd as a long lost friend;
Commerce again, with fav'ring gales,
Had scarcely brought her treasures nigh,
When cruel war again assails;
For we must fight, or tamely die.

The sword scarce sheath'd from bloody fight,
Again meets sword with hideous clang,
Again maintaining England's right,
The soldier feels the dying pang.
Ceres' rich stores that strew'd the plains,
Now mangled heaps of slain supply,
And hills re-echoing shepherds' strains,
Resound “We'll conquer, or we'll die.”

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So—rous’d to vengeance—should the Gallic foe
On Albion's coast bid war's fell demons rage—

With kindred flames each patriot breast shall glow,
And catch new ardour from thy classic page.

Then, when for all that life endears, they pay Their thanks, and grateful own thy verse prevail'd; Britons to thee shall raise this votive lay! “The bard succeeded, where the statesman fail’d.” J. A. • At the present important Crisis, it would be unpardonable in us to omit recom

mending to the serious perusal of our readers, this animated poem, as one of the best written, and best timed productions, that ever issued from the British press.

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Ite, Rime dolente, al duro sasso
Che'l mio caro Tesoro in terra asconde:
Ici chiamate chi dal Ciel risponde;
Benchè'l mortal sia in loco oscuro e basso.
Ditele, ch'io son gia di vicer lasso;
Del navigar per queste orribil’onde:
Ma, ricogliendo le.sue sparse fronde,
Dietro le vo purcos, passo passo. !

Sol di lei ragionando viva e morta,
Anzipur vira, ed or fatta immortale; o
Accioche’l Mondo la conosca ed ame.
Piaccele al mio passar’ esser' accorta;
Chee presso omai : siam'al incontro; equale
Ella e mel Cielo, a semi tiri e chiame.


Go, melancholy Rhimes; in pity go,
And penetrate the rigid Marble's Base
That marks with awful front the sacred place
Where sleeps my LAURA in the dust below.
Yet though on earth her Form shall never know
The wonted semblance of its winning Grace,
And though Death preys upon her beauteous Face,
Still shall her voice from Heaven's wide concave flow.

Say, I am weary of Life's joyless Day:

Of journeying through this desolated Waste.

I trace her scatter'd leaves” which guide my sight:

And to the silent Tomb my progress haste. * *

In hope, though now uncheer'd by her mild ray, | It soon shall meet me in the realms of Light.

S. W. L.

18 Jul. 1803. *In allusion to the Laurel.


---- - ---- - .* - SONNET,

Occasioned by the preceding having been written on the obitual Day of Petrarch.”

Lov'd Songstress! who on PETRARch's parting Day,
Dear to the Muse of the soft plaintive LYRE,
Hast breath'd such Strains as might his Dust inspire
With sense, although his LAURA sleeps in clay,
That still survives the pure celestial Ray
' Which in his breast waken'd the sacred Fire
Of tender, elegant, and high Desire,
And bade his numbers wing to Heaven their Way:

Dear be that Day to us!—oft as the Hours
Bring its return,--if Heaven so will,—to me,
May it remind me what to Heaven I owe
For thy mild sweetness, thy poetic Powers;
For every source of purest Bliss in Thee:
And never o'er this thought may chill Oblivion flow.
. L.

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