But should'st thou once, in vision sweet,

Divest that brow of scorn;
O! may the night of such deceit

Ne'er know return of morn!

W. P.

TO DELIA.

PERMITTED, unreproved, to gaze-
My favor'd rival idly strays :-
O bless, whene'er thou wilt, my sight,
This breast will beat with pure delight!

If he, who feels the tropic SUN,
Repairs to shade the warmth to shun,

The dweller on the polar shores

Ne'er sees him shine but he adores!

W. P.

TO DELIA.

Written on the Coast of Sussex.

SOMETIMES the rugged shore I tread,
And now the Downs, high-lifted, rove;
The cliff, the wood, the cavern dread,
Ilave often heard the tale of Love.

O smile not at the tortured mind

That 'midst the dreary scene complains! In nature what can be less kind

Than her, who in this bosom reigns?

Less kind?-For tho' no pity dwells
In frowning cliffs, or forests lorn,
The rock my story ne'er repels

The tree waves not its head in scorn.

TO DELIA

THE FAREWELL !

W. P.

By unrelenting scorn subdued,

When in the sleep of death I'm laid, My grave with pity will be view'd,

And DELIA then may court my shade.

The Martyr touch'd with holy zeal

Amidst the flame makes others feel: The Scoffer, who his virtue eyes, Becomes his convert whilst he dies!

W. P.

TO FEBRIS.

BY THE REV. J. WHITEHOUSE.

I.

SWART Demon! that amidst the breast of man
Ragest, like noon in summer; fiercest thou
Of all the fiends that from his tortured brow
Wring pain; prime leader of that hideous clan,
Marasmus, Epilepse, and Frenzy dire!
Ah far, far hence remove thy heavy hand,
Nor roll thy boiling torrent through the veins,
That every labouring sinew strains,
Scorching the vitals like consuming fire!

Nor, O! forbid sweet sleep with opiates bland
To bathe the senses in forgetfulness,

And yon sad Suppliant's frame with balmy slumbers bless.

11.

Yet seldom sleep affords the wished-for rest,
And those soft dews restorative that cheer
The mind perturbed, but baleful visions drear
Hang lowering, in fantastic horrors drest;
Snatch'd sudden o'er dark desert ways forlorn,
Some cliff abrupt thy victim seems to tread,
Or lists the din of Ocean raving wild,
Against the opposing barrier piled,

Of adamantine rocks incessant borne;

Or marks the wan ghost quit his wormy bed,
Or wanders sad, where o'er the moon-light vale,
Gigantic Terror stalks, with visage ghastly pale.

III.

Fierce like thyself, but of a pallid hue,
Sits AGUE opposite with chattering teeth,
Who, while he fetches hard his labouring breath,
Wipes, from his temples cold, the clammy dew;
Hung o'er the glowing embers, all in vain

He chafes his shivering limbs, benumb'd with cold;
Life's crimson fountain through his veins creeps slow,
And languid beats each pulse and low,

While up his legs in many a tortuous chain,

The dull Torpedo flings his icy fold,

And Languor sits upon his leaden eye,

And heaves his panting breast the involuntary sigh.

IV.

Spare, RUTHLESS POWERS, ah, spare that virgin

bloom,

That delicate soft cheek of vermeil die,

That ruby lip, and liquid-beaming eye,

Nor to the dank grave's cold obstruction doom
Virtue's meek lustre, whose unfolding charms
Heighten the graces of ingenuous youth;
Nor bid the Lover, robbed by Fate severe
Of her Affection holds most dear,

Hang, like the blasted oak, and stretch his arms
O'er the lost bud of faithfulness and truth!

But mostly spare the highly-cultur'd mind,

That thrills to every nerve with feelings too refin'd.

THE NEW YEAR.

BY EDMUND L. SWIFT, ESQ.

THOUGH the wild Winter's wind I hear,
Dirge of the darkly-closing year,
Though tempests shake the troubled main,
Though torrents whelm the deluged plain,
With tranquil breast, and steady eye,
"Tis mine to mark the threat'ning sky:
What war of elements can move
The heart secure in MARY's love?

Come, Winter, wave thy funeral robe,
To shade with woe the wasted globe!
Scatter in desolation wide

The hope of Spring, the Summer's pride!
With fiercely-withering rage destroy
The bounteous wealth of Autumn's joy!
But never, never, seek to move
The heart secure in Mary's love!

Thou ne'er shalt bid my bosom wear The sullen livery of Despair:

When speeds THE SPRING OF LOVE, to ope
For me the orient bud of Hope;

Sweet promise of his SUMMER'S pleasure,
And his rich AUTUMN's ripen'd treasure,
WINTER, canst thou the bosom move,
Whose seasons feel the power of Love?