Then, turning to the ministers of Fate,
She, smiling, says, "My victory's compleat ;
• And tell your queen I thank her for the blow,
• And grieve, my gratitude I cannot show.
• A poor return I leave in England's crown,

For eterlasting pleasure and renown:
• Her guilt alone allays this happy hour;
• Her guilt--the only vengeance in her pow'r !!

Not Rome, untouch'd with forrow, heard her fate; And fierce Maria pity'd her too late.

EFFUSIONS OF MELANCHOLY.

BY MISS ROBERTS.

THE

HE filent tear, that steals adown the cheek ;

The heart-felt figh, thàt heaves and is fuppress’d: These figns the anguish of the mind bespeak,

And shew the forrow lab'ring in my breast.

At times, before my fad deluded eye

Some dancing gleams of fatt'ring hope appear ; But soon the airy visions distant fly,

Those tranfient phantom's, chac'd by black Despair!

That gloomy tyrant now resumes his seat,

O'er my fad foul extends his racking sway; Obedient to his will my pulses beat,

And meet with rifing grief each new-born day.

Fictitious smiles, that dimple o'er my face,

(Light covering of a heart with woe replete!) How oft the starting tears your charms deface !

And fighs, half smother'd, tell the vain deceit.

Oh! could my feeling foul, from earth refin'd,

Reach the bright manfions of eternal reft ; To Heaven each sublunary wish refign'd;

No more fhould paffions fwell this beating breast !

These eyes, from whence the briny streams have flow'd,

Oft for my own, and oft for others ill ; Their stock exhausted, spent their wat'ry load,

Crumbled in duft, no more should tears distill!

ROSLINE

CASTLE,

AN

E LEGY.

BY J. JOHNSTONE, ESQ.

A

T dead of night, the hour when courts
In
gay

fantastick pleasures move; And haply Mira joins their sports,

And hears some newer, richer love:

To Rosline's ruins I repair,

A folitary wretch forlorn ;
To mourn, uninterrupted, there,

My hapless love, her hapless fcorn.

No sound of joy disturbs my strain,

No hind is whistling on the hill ; No hunter winding o'er the plain,

No maiden singing at the rill.

Ek, murm’ring thro' the dusky pines,

Reflects the moon's mitt-mantled beam ; And Fancy chills, where'er it shines,

To fee pale ghosts obscurely gleam.

Not