For of that cherish'd race she sprang
"Most fleet of foot and sure of fang,"
That race which Hebe once adorned,
Thy Hebe yet so proudly mourned!
That race which still on Sherborne's plain
In speed and beauty matchless reign.
Long may they reign, unrivall'd still
By all who course on dale or hill!
Long may'st thou share their high renown,
And health and bliss thy wishes crown!
EPIGRAM
FROM THE GREEK.
To make the boy a scholar, to my care
An advertising Doctor gave his heir.
We got to Homer*; and "that wrath, the spring
"Of woes unnumber'd," soon he learnt to sing;
Then in due course, "to Pluto's gloomy reign
"Hurl'd many a gallant soul untimely slain."
But now he came no longer. In the street
It shortly was my luck the Sire to meet;
And "thanks my friend," he cried, but to be free,
"What you were teaching he may learn of me.
"I, ere their time, hurl many a soul below;
"Yet not one word of Homer need to know"
There is a propriety in the original, which could not be preserved in the "Imitation." Homer was the first book taught in the Grammar Schools of Greece.
LONE wanderer of the midnight sky,
I mark thee through my casement gleam;
And, stretch'd upon a sleepless couch,
I bless thy paly beam.
Oh! com'st thou here with silent foot,
When all is hush'd in deep repose,
To whisper to my troubled heart
A solace for its woes.
Impart to me that placid mien,
That tranced look, as when on high
Thou pausest for a while to list
The spheres' wild harmony.
What means that blush? Sure, modeft Queen,
Thron'd on thy fleecy clouds above,
The young God hath not with thy rays
Lighted his torch of love!
Yet, if thy soul has felt his power,
Come, thou art here a welcome guest,
For young Desire hath kindled too
A flame within this breast.
Yes, I will sympathize with thee,
(And mutual cares will each endear)
Thy beams can speak most eloquent;
I'll answer with a tear.
Be Love our theme-its visions warm,
Its balmy sighs and stolen joy,
And feelings trembling on the brink
Of bliss and agony.
Come, thou shalt say
O'er every sense, at dead of night,
When first the breeze pour'd on thy ear
Endymion and delight.
And I will tell-if words can tell-
Oh no! this tear and frequent sigh
Can best express what I have felt
From Mary's love-fraught eye.
Oh might that blue eye's tender languish
Beam but on me, what bliss were mine;
'Twould o'er my soul diffuse a ray
Of happiness divine.
But why that blush again, sweet Maid?
Why 'thwart thy face, so shining fair,
Roll clouds so dark, that Fancy reads
In them the page of Care?
Alas! they say Love's but a dream,
Fleeting and few its happy hours;
That Life's at best a thorny wild,
And never strew'd with flowers.
Sweet moralist! I know it well;
Man onward toils in pain and sorrow;
Yet fondly hopes a glimpse of joy
Will bless him on the morrow.
Vain is the hope-yet should that glimpse
Strike on his mind, in mercy given,
It but reveals the darkness round,
Like the light'ning flash of Heaven.
Cease, throbbing breaft! But thou, pale Queen,
Come, soothe my heart with grief opprest;
Say, that the sleep of Death is sweet
To those who sigh for rest.
FROM youth to youth, from friend to friend,
Inconstant Vola flies;
"My love," she swears, "shall never end;"
But as she speaks it dies.
No milder flame, no mediate state,
Her fervid bosom knows;
Worship is love, dislike is hate,
And all are friends or foes.
Thus in an oriental clime,
When Heav'n withdraws its light, Unknown is twilight's shadowy time, But day is sunk in night.
ON A WATCH-PAPER CUT BY A YOUNG LADY.
BY THE LATE REV. DR. RUSSEL.
LONG had I liv'd fair Chloe's slave,
And with a fruitless passion strove,
When fondly to the nymph I gave
A weapon, to dispatch my love;
These scissars, Chloe, from your swain
Accept, said I, and ease my pain.
Restore, unkind, my foolish heart,
Restore it to my widow'd breast;
Too long I've borne the killing smart,
Too long been destitute of rest;
Take, Chloe, take this shining steel,
And end that love you cannot feel.
The glitt'ring gift the fair one took;
And strait the engine wide, extends,
With careless air, and smiling look,
Upon her snowy fingers' ends;
Then, pleas'd to shew her matchless art,
In paper cut a trembling Heart.
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