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How fruitless his pursuits ! Eternal God!
Guide thou my footsteps in the way of truth,
And oh! assist me so to live on earth,
That I may die in peace, and claim a place
In thy high dwelling.—All but this is folly,
The vain illusions of deceitful life,

LINES,

SUPPOSED TO BE SPOKEN BY A LOVER, AT THE GRAVE OF

HIS MISTRESS.

Occasioned by a Situation in a Romance.

MARY, the moon is sleeping on thy grave,
And on the turf thy lover sad is kneeling,
The big tear in bis eye.--Mary awake,
From thy dark house arise, and bless his sight
On the pale moonbeam gliding. Soft, and low,
Pour on the silver ear of night thy tale,
Thy whisper'd tale, of comfort, and of love,
To soothe thy Edward's lorn, distracted soul,
And cheer his breaking heart.-Come, as thou didst,
When o'er the barren moors the night-wind howľ’d,
And the deep thunders shook the ebon throne
Of the startled night.-0! then, as lone reclining,
I listen'd sadly, to the dismal storm,
Thou, on the lambent lightnings wild careering
Didst strike my moody eye:- dead pale thou wert,

Yet passing lovely.--Thou didst smile upon me,
And oh! thy voice it rose so musical,
Betwixt the hollow pauses of the storm,
That at the sound the winds forgot to rave,
And the stern demon of the tempest, charm'd
Sunk on his rocking throne, to still repose,
Lock'd in the arms of silence.

Spirit of her!
My only love !_0! now again arise,
And let once more thine aëry accents fall
Soft on my listening ear. The night is calm,
The gloomy willows wave in sinking cadence
With the stream that sweeps below. Divinely swelling
On the still air, the distant waterfall
Mingles its melody ;--and high, above,
The pensive empress of the solemn night,
Fitful, emerging from the rapid clouds,
Shews her chaste face, in the meridian sky.
No wicked elves upon the Warlock-knoll
Dare now assemble at their inystic revels.
It is a night, when from their primrose beds,
The gentle ghosts of injur'd innocents,
Are known to rise, and wander on the breeze,
Or take their stand by the oppressor's couch,
And strike grim terror to his guilty soul.
The spirit of my love might now awake,
And hold its custom'd converse.

Mary, lo!

Thy Edward kneels upon thy verdant grave,
And calls upon thy name.--The breeze that blows

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On his wan cheek, will soon sweep over him
In solemn music, a funereal dirge,
Wild and most sorrowful.--His cheek is pale,
The worm that prey'd upon thy youthful bloom,
It canker'd green on his.- Now lost he stands,
The ghost of what he was, and the cold dew
Which bathes his aching temples, gives sure omen
Of speedy dissolution.- -Mary, soon,
Thy love will lay his pallid cheek to thine,
And sweetly will he sleep with thee in death.

MY STUDY,

A Letter in Hudibrastic Verse.

YOU bid me, Ned, describe the place
Where I, one of the rhyming race,
Pursue my studies con amore,
And wanton with the muse in glory.

Well, figure to your senses straight,
Upon the houses topmost height,
A closet, just six feet by four,
With white-wash'd walls, and plaster floor.
So noble large, 'tis scarcely able
To admit a single chair and table:
And (lest the muse should die with cold)
A smoky grate my fire to hold:

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So wonderous small, 'twould much it

pose To melt the ice-drop on one's nose ; And yet so big, it covers o'er Full half the spacious room and more.

A window vainly stuff'd about,
To keep November's breezes out,
So crazy, that the panes proclaim,
That soon they mean to leave the frame.

My furniture, I sure may crack-
A broken chair without a back;
A table, wanting just two legs,
One end sustain’d by wooden pegs ;
A desk-of that I am not fervent,
The work of, Sir, your humble Servant;
(Who, though I say't, am no such fumbler)
A glass decanter and a tumbler,
From which, my night-parched throat I lave,
Luxurious, with the limpid wave.
A chest of drawers, in antique sections,
And saw'd by me, in all directions ;
So small, Sir, that whoever views 'em,
Swears nothing but a doll could use 'em.
To these, if you will add a store,
Of oddities upon the floor,
A pair of globes, electric balls,
Scales, quadrants, prisms and cobler's awls,
And crowds of books, on rotten shelves,

Octavos, folios, quartos, twelves;
VOL. II.

I think, dear Ned, you curious dog,
You'll have my earthly catalogue.
But stay,-I nearly had left out
My bellows destitute of snout;
And on the walls, -Good Heavens! why there
I've such a load of precious ware,
Of heads, and coins, and silver medals,
And organ works, and broken pedals,
(For I was once a building music,
Though soon of that employ I grew sick)
And skeletons of laws which shoot
All out of one primordial root;
That you, at such a sight, would swear
Confusion's self had settled there.
There stands, just by a broken sphere,
A Cicero without an ear,
A neck, on which by logic good
I know for sure a head once stood;
But who it was the able master,
Had moulded in the mimic plaster,
Whether 'twas Pope, or Coke, or Burn,
I never yet could justly learn :
But knowing well, that any head
Is made to answer for the dead,
(And sculptors first their faces frame,
And after pitch upon a name,
Nor think it ought of a misnomer
To christen Chaucer's busto, Homer,
Because they both have beards, which you know
Will mark them well from Joan, and Juno,)

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