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

[flowers;

hours 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.

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;

Yet, why a lonely wanderer stray?
Alone the joy pursue?

The glories of the closing day

Can charm thy Mary too.

O Edward, when we stroll'd along
Beneath the waving corn,

And both confess'd the power of song,
And bless'd the dewy morn;
To thy fond words my heart replied
(My presence then could move),
'How sweet with Mary by my side,
To gaze and talk of love.'

Thou art not false;-that cannot be!
Yet I my rivals deem

Each woodland charm, the moss, the tree,
The silence, and the stream.

If these, my love, detain thee now,

I'll yet forgive thy stay;

But with to-morrow's dawn come thou

We'll brush the dews away.

BLOOMFIELD.

SONG, ON A KISS.

HUMID seal of soft affections!
Tenderest pledge of future bliss!
Dearest tie of young connexions!
Love's first snowdrop, virgin kiss!
Speaking silence! dumb confession!
Passion's birth and infant play!
Dovelike fondness, chaste concession,
Glowing dawn of brighter day!

VOL. III.

NN

Sorrowing joy! adieu's last action,

When lingering lips no more must join!
What words can ever speak affection
So thrilling, so sincere as thine?

Thee the fond youth, untaught and simple,
Nor on the naked breast can find,
Nor yet within the cheek's small dimple!
Sole offspring thou of lips conjoin'd!
Then haste thee to thy dewy mansjon;
With Hebe spend the laughing day!
Dwell in her rubied lips' expansion!
Bask in her eyes propitious ray!

SONG.

ANONYMOUS.

LET the lovesick boy, who dies

If anger beam from Cloe's eyes,
Bow before the iron rod

Of the tyrant archer god;

Who feeds with dreams of poison'd bowls
The gloomy, dull, distemper'd souls
Of wretched lovers, who despair,
Because a peevish woman's fair!
Be mine the little rosy boy

Whose only chains are chains of joy;
Who dances on to Lydian measures,
Surrounded by a troop of pleasures;
Mutual wishes, soft desires,

Such as merry May inspires,

When in the Twins the sun is glowing,
And a fragrant zephyr blowing;
And sometimes round his temples twine
A fillet steeped in mighty wine: