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For the Literary Magazine. One little moment, short as blest,
Compassion Love's soft semblance *The following verses are supposed to wore,
be written by a gentle and timid My meagre form he fondly pressid, young woman, pining under the op And on his beating bosom bore. pression of a romantic and concealed passion for a man who entertained no His frame with strong emotion shook, suspicion of her attachment.
And kindness tun'd each falt'ring
word; NOT one kind look-one friendly word! While I, surpris'd, with anxious look
Wilt thou in chilling silence sit, The meaning of his glance explor’d. Ņor through the social hour afford One cheering smile or beam of wit? But soon my too experienc'd heart
Read nought but venerous pity there ; Yet still, absorb’d in studious care, I felt presumptuous hope depart,
Neglect to waste one look on me; And all again was dark despair.
Yet still, in memory still, my heart
Lives o'er that fleeting bliss again; And still in silence sit, nor deign I feel his glance, his touch, impart
One gentle, precious word to say; Emotion through each bursting vein. For silent I may then remain,
And “ Once (I cry) those eyes so sweet Nor let my voice my soul betray.
On me with fondness deign’d to shine; This falt'ring voice, these conscious eyes, For once I felt his bosom beat
My throbbing heart too plainly speak: Against the conscious throbs of mine!" There timid hopeless passion lies,
Nor shall the dear remembrance die And bids it silence keep, and break.
While aught to me of life is given; To me how dear this twilight hour,
But soothe my last convulsive sigh, Cheer'd by the faggot's varying blaze!
And be, till then, my joy, my heaven! If this be mine, I ask no more
On morn's refulgent light to gaze: For now, while on his glowing cheek
For the Literary Magazine. I see the fire's red radiance fall, The darkest seat I softly seek,
TO ELIZA, WITH A DOVE. And gaze on him, unseen by all.
ACCEPT, dear maid, the most delightHis folded arms, his studious brow,
ful bird His thoughtful eye, unmark'd, I see ; That ever Venus to her chariot bound; Nor could his voice or words bestow By Love adopted, and by Peace preSo dear, so true a joy on me.
For meekness valu'd, and for faith reBut he forgets that I am near :
nown'd. Fame, future fame, in thought he A bird, in which such rare perfections seeks;
meet, To him ambition's paths appear, And bright the sun of science breaks. His beauty, fair one, is, like your's,
Alone is worthy to be counted thine:
complete, His heart with ardent hope is fillid;
And his fidelity resembles mine.
TO JULIUS, WITH A GOOSE. One only boon from Heaven I claim, Swain, I accept your all-accomplished And may it grant the fond desire !
dove, That I may live to hear his fame,
With rapture listen to his plaintive And in that throb of joy extire.
And vow with constancy the bird to If friends, if wealth, if earthly power love,
could save, Whose beauty thus reminds me of my Thy arm, O Death, had not the vic. own
But vain, alas! is every human aid, I cannot prove my gratitude too soon, When once opposed against Jehovah's For such a mark of tenderness con reign.
ferr'd; So song for song be thine, and boon for Yes, he was dear to all who knew his boon,
worth, Kindness for kindness, swain, and Each breast for him the pensive sigh bird for bird.
Though he's united to his kindred Lo the best fowl the barn-yard can pro
Yet in their memory still his virtues duce,
live. My choice has singled from a tuneful group;
In his young breast bright Honou Accept, sweet bard, from me as great a rear'd her throne, goose
In his great mind fair Wisdom's inAs e'er was fatten'd in a poult'rer's fluence spread, coop.
While firm Integrity claim'd him her
own, Your verse the merit of the dove dis And threw her dazzling lustre round plays:
his head. The compliments I pay my bird are few ;
Firmness of soal still marked the path Yet 'tis, methinks, no niggard share of he trod, praise
His breast was warmed by virtue's saTo say how strongly he resembles cred flame ;
He bowd to each decree assigned by you.
Ah, why then mourn for him, ye paFor the Literary Magazine.
Since he's removed from this vain LINES
Ah, why then shed the fond regretting ON THE DEATH OF JOHN ALLEN,
Where he has gone all sorrow cease Who departed this life on the third day of
and woe. February, 1806.
Rather rejoice his happy spirit's free'd,
And flown to taste of purer joys AH, cruel Death! why with untimely
above ; frost Dost thou delight to nip the tender Our blessed Saviour once for him did
That he might dwell in everlasting A shining ornament of science lost,
love. When Allen fell a victim to thy
E. B. w. power. Scarce seventeen summers o'er his head
For the Literary Magazine. had rollid, Scarce had his budding worth began
ON WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, 1616. to bloom, When Death approach'd, with meagre RENOWNED Spenser, lye a thought form, and told
more nigh That he must fall a victim to the To learned Chaucer; and, rare Beau. tomb.
ODE TO SICKNESS.
A little nearer Spenser ; to make roome Yet I have known thee fong! and For Shakespeare in your threefold, I have felt fourfold tombe
All that thou hast of sorrow. Many à tear To lodge all foure in one bed make a Has fall’n on my cold cheek; and many shift,
á sigh Until doom's day; for hardly will a Calld forth by thee, has swelld my fifth,
aching breast: Between this day and that by fates be Yet still I bless thee. O thou chasslaine,
t'ning pow'r! For whom your curtaines may be drawn For all I bless thee! Thou hast taught again.
To rest upon itself; to look beyond
On the sure basis of eternity. For the Literary Magazine,
Meanwhile, even in this transito. The following ode is said to have been ry scene,
written by a lady, in the north of Er Of what hast thou deprived me! Has gland, who for many years had been
thy hand oppressed with a hopeless consump- Clos'd up the book of knowledge ; tion.
drawn a veil O'er the fair face of nature; or des.
The tender pleasures of domestic life? NOT to the rosy maid, whom former Ah no! 'tis thine to call forth in the
heart hours Beheld me fondly covet, tune I now
Each better feeling; thou awakenest
there The melancholy lyre : no more I seek That unconfined philanthropy, which Thy aid, Hygeia* ! sought so long in
feels vain :
For all the unhappy--that warm symBut, 'tis to thee, O Sickness, 'tis to thee I wake the silent strings. Accept the
Which, casting every selfish care aside, lay Thou art no tyrant, warring the fierce Finds its own bliss in seeing others
blest scourge O’er unresisting victims; but a nymph, Which, feeling all the nothingness of
That melancholy, tender, yet sublime, Of mild, though mournful mein. Upon
earth, thy brow
Exalts the soul to Heaven; and, more Patience sits smiling; and whose heavy
than these, eye, Tho' moist with tears, is always fixed That pure devotion, which, even in the
hour on Heaven. Thou wrapps't the world in gloom; With tears of ecstacy-such tears, per
Of agonizing pain, can fill the eyes but thou canst tell Of worlds where all is sunshine : and
haps, at length,
As angels love to shed. When thro' this vale of sorrow thou These are thy gifts, O Sickness ! hast led
These to me Thy patient suff'rers, cheering them Thou hast vouchsafed, and taught me the while
how to prize. With many a smile of promise, thy Shall my soul shrink from aught thou
hast ordain'd? Unlocks the bowers of everlasting rest; Shall I e'en envy the luxurious train, Where death's kind angel waits to dry Around whose path Prosperity has
their tears, And crown them with his amaranthine Her gilded toys? Ah! let them still flowers.
The shining trifles! never shall they * The goddess of health.
Such pure and holy pleasures as await Their radiant eyes on this polluted scene The heart refin'd by suffering. Not to Drop on their golden harps a pitying
them Does Fancy sing her wild romantic song:
Prosperity! I count thy gifts no 'Tis not for them her glowing hand undraws
Nor thine, O fair Hygeia! Yet to thee The sacred veil that hides the angelic I breath one fervent prayer; attend the world;
strain : They hear not in the music of the wind If, for my faded brow, thy hand preCelestial voices, that in whispers sweet, pare Call to the flowers-the young and Some future wreath, let me the gift rebashful flowers !
sign; They see not, at the shadowy hour of Transfer the rosy garland ; bid it bloom
Around the temples of that friend, beDescending spirits, who on silver wing loved, Glide thro' the air, and to their harps On whose maternal bosom, even now, divine
I lay my aching head! and, as I mark Sing, in soft notes, the vesper hymn of The smile that plays upon her speaking praise ;
face, Or, pausing for a moment, as they turn Forget that I have ever shed a tear!
ALFRED_Gulielmo to Gulielma—“ Cynthia the saint free from sin," &c. are not sufficiently correct for publication.
Diogenes would be a valuable correspondent to the “ Spirit of the Press.'
Mr. Clark's statements of the Louisiana soil and products have been al. ready set apart for re-publication in this work. The editor heartily con. curs with Agricola.
Martin's portrait of a good wife is good enough for a likeness, but not sufficiently laboured for a picture. A devil by Raphael is better than a sign-post angel.
The Traveller's communications will be gratefully received. An early communication is requested.
Theron will be returned when called for. The Missionary Magazine is the proper repository for communications of this nature. The editor endeavours to avoid all polemics, whether religious or political.
There are several communications, on which, agreeably to the request of the writers, the editor is silent.
THE SIXTH VOLUME.
ADDISON and Steele, revolution Ariosto and his translatot, remarks
26 Aristocracy, the want of a natural
of the disasters of the French
an improvement of sug “ Arundel” and “ Henry,” brief
ib. Banks, origin of many of them 165
Bards, Grecian, remarks on 129
ib. Beaver, Mr., extracts from his
used as a substitute
427 Blair, Dr. Hugh, a sketch of 74
65 Blunders of the French constitu.
different modes of calcu.
on the passion for collect-
22 Brasilian Portuguese, a sketch of 129