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More like you'll find such sparks as these

To Epicurus' Deities;

Like them they mix not with affairs,
But loll and laugh at human cares.

To beaux this difference is allow'd,
They choose a sofa for a cloud;
Bellario had embrac'd with glee
This practical philosophy.*

See volume first of Hannah More's admirable works.

19 vols. Cadell, 1818.

HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS.

Sonnet to Hope.*

O EVER skill'd to wear the form we love!
To bid the shapes of fear and grief depart;
Come, gentle Hope! with one gay smile remove
The lasting sadness of an aching heart.
Thy voice, benign Enchantress! let me hear;

Say that for me some pleasures yet shall bloom, That Fancy's radiance, Friendship's precious tear, Shall soften, or shall chase, misfortune's gloom. But come not glowing in the dazzling ray,

Which once with dear illusions charm'd my eye, O! strew no more, sweet flatterer! on my way

The flowers I fondly thought too bright to die; Visions less fair will soothe my pensive breast, That asks not happiness, but longs for rest!

To this sonnet, the authoress has subjoined the following note, in an edition of her Poems printed 1823: "I commence the Sonnets with that to Hope, from a predilection in its favour, for which I have a proud reason: it is that of Mr. Wordsworth, who lately honoured me with his visits while at Paris, having repeated it to me from memory, after a lapse of many years."

SONG.

Ан, Evan, by thy winding stream

How once I lov'd to stray,

And view the morning's reddening beam, Or charm of closing day!

To yon dear grot by Evan's side,
How oft my steps were led,
Where far beneath the waters glide,
And thick the woods are spread!

But I no more a charm can see
In Evan's lovely glades;
And drear and desolate to me

Are those enchanting shades.

While far-how far from Evan's bowers,
My wandering lover flies;
Where dark the angry tempest lowers,

And high the billows rise!

And O, where'er the wanderer goes,

Is that poor mourner dear,

Who gives, while soft the Evan flows,

Each passing wave a tear!

And does he now that grotto view?
On those steep banks still gaze?
In fancy does he still

pursue

The Evan's lovely maze?

O come! repass the stormy wave,
O toil for gold no more!
Our love a dearer pleasure gave

On Evan's peaceful shore.

Leave not my breaking heart to mourn The joys so long denied;

Ah, soon to those green banks return Where Evan meets the Clyde.

JOANNA BAILLIE.

The Kitten.

WANTON drole, whose harmless play
Beguiles the rustic's closing day,
When drawn the evening fire about,
Sit aged crone, and thoughtless lout,
And child upon his three-foot stool,
Waiting till his supper cool;

And maid, whose cheek outblooms the rose,
As bright the blazing faggot glows,

Who, bending to the friendly light,
Plies her task with busy sleight;

Come, shew thy tricks and sportive graces,
Thus circled round with merry faces.
Backward coil'd, and crouching low,
With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe,
The housewife's spindle whirling round,
Or thread, or straw, that on the ground
Its shadow throws, by urchin sly
Held out to lure thy roving eye;
Then, onward stealing, fiercely spring
Upon the futile, faithless thing.

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