head!

Ah, whither fled? Ye dear illusions, stay! Lo, pale and filent lies the lovely clay. How are the roses on that cheek decay’d, Which late the purple light of youth display'd ! Health on her form each sprightly grace bestow'd; With life and thought each speaking feature glow’d. Fair was the blossom, soft the vernal sky; Elate with hope we deem'd no tempest nigh ; When lo, a whirlwind's instantaneous gust Left all its beauties withering in the dust.

Cold the soft hand, that sooth'd Woe's weary And quench'd the eye, the pitying tear that shed! And mute the voice, whose pleasing accents stole, Infusing balm, into the rankled soul! O Death! why arm with cruelty thy power, And spare the idle weed, yet lop the flower ? Why fly thy shafts in lawless error driven? Is Virtue then no more the care of Heaven? But peace, bold thought! be ftill, my bursting heart! We, not Eliza, felt the fatal dart. Escap'd the dungeon does the slave complain, Nor bless the friendly hand that broke the chain? Say, pines not Virtue for the lingering morn, On this dark wild condemn’d to roam forlorn ? Where Reason's meteor-rays, with fickly glow, O'er the dun gloom a dreadful glimmering throw ; Disclosing dubious to th' affrighted eye O’erwhelming mountains tottering from on high, Black billowy deeps in storm perpetual toss'd, And weary ways in wildering labyrinths loft. O happy stroke, that bursts the bonds of clay, Darts through the rending gloom the blaze of day,

And

And wings the foul' with boundless flight to foar
Where dangers threat, and fears alarm, no more.

Transporting thought! here let me wipe away
The tear of grief, and wake a bolder lay.
But ah! the swimming eye o'erflows anew ;
Nor check the sacred drops to pity due :
Lo, where in speechless, hopeless anguish, bend
O’er her lov'd dust, the Parent, Brother, Friend!
How vain the hope of man! But cease thy strain,
Nor Sorrow's dread folemnity profane;
Mix'd with yon drooping mourners, on her bier
In silence shed the sympathetic tear.

Dr. BEATTIE.

S E C T.

CXII.

ON A THUNDER-STORM, AT MIDNIGHT,

LET coward Guilt, with pallid Fear,

To shelt'ring caverns fly, And juftly dread the vengeful fate

That thunders through the sky.

Protected by that hand, whose law

The threat'ning storms obey, Intrepid Virtue fmiles fecure,

As in the blaze of day.

In the thick cloud's tremendous gloom,

The lightning's lurid glare,
It views the same all-gracious Pow'r

That breathes the vernal air.

Thro

T

By reason taught to scorn those fears

That vulgar minds molest,
Let no fantastic terrors break

My dear Narcissa's rest.

Thy life may all the tend'reft care

Of Providence defend,
And delegated angels round

Their guardian wings extend !
When thro' creation's vast expanse

The last dread thunders roll,
Untune the concord of the spheres,

And shake the rising foul;
Unmov'd may'st thou the final storm

Of jarring worlds survey,
That ushers in the glad serene

Of everlasting day !

Miss CARTER,

SECT

AT day’s early dawn, a gay Butterfly {py’d

A budding young Rose, and he wish'd her his

bride;
She blush'd when she heard him his paffion declare,
And tenderly told him he need not despair.
Their vows they soon plighted, as lovers still do;
He swore to be constant, she vow'd to be true.
It had not been prudent to deal with delay :
The bloom of a Rofe passes quickly away,
And the pride of a Butterfly dies in a day.

II.
When wedded, away the wing'd gentleman hies;
From Aow'ret to flow'ret he wantonly fies:
Nor did he revisit his bride, till the sun
Had less than one fourth of his journey to run.
The Rofe thus reproach'd him-“ Already so cold?
“ How feign'd, O you false one! that passion you told!
“ 'Tis anage since you left me”-she meant a few hours;
But such we'll suppose the fond language of flowers.

III. “ I saw when you gave the base Vi’let a kiss: “ How could you descend to such meanness as this? or Shall a low little wretch, whom we Roses despise, “ Find favour, oh Love, in my Butterfly's eyes? “ On a Tulip, quite tawdry, I mark'd your foul rape; « Nor yet could the pitiful Primrose escape: “ Dull Daffodils, too, were with paffion address'd, " And Poppies, ill-scented, you fondly caress’d."

IV. The coxcomb was piqued, and reply'd with a sncer, " That you're first to complain, I commend you, my

dear; " But, know, from your conduct my maxims I drew, “ And if I'm inconstant, I copy from you. " I saw the boy Zephyrus rifle your charms; " I saw how you fimper'd and smild in his arms: “The Honey-bee kiss'd you, you must not disown; “ You favour'd, likewise, O dishonour! a Drone! « What's worse'tis a fault which you cannot deny, “ Your sweets were made common, false Rose, to a Fly."

THE MORAL.

This law, long ago, did Love's providence make,
That ev'ry coquet should be curs’d with a rake.

CUNNINGHAM

S E C T. CXIV.

ON LOVE.

FRANSLATED FROM A MUCH ADMIRED. LATIN EXER

CISE OF LORD NORTH, WHICH HE COMPOSED

WHEN AT ETON.

LIKE as the bustling bee, when spring displays

Her blooming honours to Apollo's rays,
Seeks the new gardens, and on Flora treads,
Or fips the nectar from the blushing meads:
Here vi'lets bloom, and here a lily grows,
But here buds forth the sweet Idalian rose:

Here