What prompts me, then, averse to fly
The luring lip and breast and eye?
Know that my proud, imperious heart
Of aught it loves can yield no part:
Where'er it reigns, it reigns alone,
And spurns a rival from its throne *.
Then, since far other thoughts are thine,
Thy witching beauties I resign.

R. A. DAVENPORT.

SONG.

I AM wearing away like the snow in the sun,

I am wearing away from the pain in my heart; But ne'er shall he know, who my peace has undone, How bitter, how lasting, how deep is my smart. I know he would pity—so kind is his soul, To him my affliction would agony be; But never, while I can my feelings control, The youth whom I love shall know sorrow through me.

Though longing to weep, in his presence I'll smile, Call the flush on my cheek the pure crimson of health;

His fears for my peace by my song I'll beguile, Nor venture to gaze on his eyes but by stealth. For conscious I am, by my glance is express'd

The passion that faithful as hopeless will be, And he, whom, alas! I can ne'er render bless'd, Shall never, no never, know sorrow through me.

MRS. OPIE.

* Bears, like the Turk, no rival near his throne. Pope.

SONG.

To thy cliffs, rocky Seaton, adieu!
And adieu to the roar of thy seas!
And adieu to the girl whose insensible heart
Is as hard and as sullen as these!
Forget the fond echoes you heard!
Forget my fond hope and my strain!
My strain is neglected, and dead is my hope
But you never shall hear me complain-
To your cliffs, rocky Seaton, adieu!

REV. W. CROWE.

SONG.

IN THE STYLE OF MR. CROWE'S SONG,
CLIFFS.'

6

SEATON

FROM thy waves, stormy Lannow, I fly,
From the rocks that are lash'd by their tide;
From the maid whose cold bosom, relentless as
Has wreck'd my warm hopes by her pride! [they,
Yet lonely and rude as the scene,

Her smile to that scene could impart

A charm that might rival the bloom of the vale ;But away thou fond dream of my heart!

To thy rocks, stormy Lannow, adieu!

Now the blasts of the Winter come on,
And the waters grow dark as they rise;
But 'tis well!-they resemble the sullen disdain
That has lour'd in those insolent eyes.
Sincere were the sighs it repress'd,

But they rose in the days that are flown!—
Oh nymph! unrelenting and cold as thou art,
My spirit is proud as thy own.

To thy rocks, stormy Lannow, adieu!
Lo! the wings of the seafowl are spread,
To escape the rough storm by their flight!
And these caves will afford them a gloomy retreat
From the winds and the billows of night!

Like them, to the home of my youth,

Like them, to its shades I retire;

Receive me, and shield my vex'd spirit, ye groves, From the storms of insulted desire!

From thy waves, rocky Lannow, I fly!

MISS SEWARD.

BALLAD.

HAST thou escaped the cannon's ire
Loud thundering o'er the troubled main?
Hast thou escaped the fever's fire

That burns so fierce on India's plain?
Then, William, then I can resign,

With scarce one sigh, the blooming grace Which in thy form was wont to shine,

Which made so bright thy youthful face. That face grows wan by sultry clime,

By watching dim those radiant eyes; But Love disdains the rage of Time,

Though youth decays, though beauty flies: An honest heart is all to me,

Nor soil nor time makes that look old, And dearer shall the jewel be

Than youth or beauty, fame or gold.

MISS SEWARD.

SONG.

Now Spring wakes the Maymorn, the sweetest of

hours

[flowers; Calls the lark to the sunbeam, the bee to the Calls youth, love, and beauty to hail the new day, And twine all their garlands in honour of May; But think not, amid the gay pleasure they bring, That moments so jocund will pause on their wing! Obey, my fair Laura, the summons that breathes In the scent of the flowers, in the hue of the leaves; In the hymn of the woodlands, for love is the lay, And fragrance and lustre are types of his sway; More sweet are his accents, more rosy his spring, And O! not less rapid the flight of his wing!

MISS SEWARD.

SONG.

TELL me, what can mean this riot
In my pulse when Damon's nigh;
That my breast is never quiet,
Ever heaving with a sigh?
If such tokens don't discover
What it is to be a lover,

Then, O tell me, what am I?
But, alas! poor thoughtless creature!
By each pulse betray'd, and sigh,
There's a tongue in every feature,
And a thousand in the eye,
Which to Damon will discover
What it is to be a lover,

And to tell him, what am I.

R. FENTON.

SONG.

THOUGH in the festive circle gay,

You see me move in frolic measure,
Mark on my cheek, in purple play,
The bloom of youth and smile of pleasure;

Ah! think not I am free from care!

But think how hard it is to cover With smiles the anguish of despair, And pity an unhappy lover.

D. CAREY.

MARY'S EVENING SIGH.

WITH lovely pearl the western sky
Is glowing far and wide,
And yon light golden clouds that fly
So slowly side by side;

The deepening tints, the arch of light,
E'en I with rapture see;
And sigh, and bless the charming sight
That lures my love from me.

O hill! that shadest the valley here,
Thou bear'st on thy green brow
The only wealth to Mary dear,
And all she'll ever know.
Full in the crimson light I see,
Above thy summit rise,
My Edward's form; he looks to me
A statue in the skies.

Descend, my love, the hour is come;
Why linger on the hill?

The sun hath left my quiet home,
But thou canst see him still;