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Stothard del.

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Plate VI.

Publifhd as the Act directs by Harrison&C® May 1a, 1781,

Page 442 line 5.

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Then, turning to the minifters of Fate,

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She, fmiling, fays, My victory's compleat;
And tell your queen I thank her for the blow,
And grieve, my gratitude I cannot fhow.
A poor return I leave in England's crown,
For everlasting 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 ROBERT S.

HE filent tear, that steals adown the cheek;
The heartfelt figh, that heaves and is fupprefs'd:

These figns the anguish of the mind befpeak,

And fhew the forrow lab'ring in my breaft.

At times, before my fad deluded eye

Some dancing gleams of flatt'ring hope appear;

But foon the airy visions distant fly,

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

That gloomy tyrant now resumes his feat,
O'er my fad foul extends his racking fway;
Obedient to his will my pulfes beat,

And meet with rifing grief each new-born day.

Fictitious fmiles, 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.

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Oh!

Oh! could my feeling foul, from earth refin'd,
Reach the bright manfions of eternal rest ;
To Heaven each fublunary wifh refign'd;

No more fhould paffions fwell this beating breaft!

These eyes, from whence the briny ftreams have flow'd,
Oft for my own, and oft for others ill;
Their ftock exhaufted, fpent their wat❜ry load,
Crumbled in duft, no more fhould tears diftill !

ROSLINE CASTLE,

AN ELEGY.

BY J. JOHNSTONE, ESQ

T dead of night, the hour when courts

A hove

In gay fantaftick pleasures move;

And haply Mira joins their sports,
And hears fome newer, richer love:

To Rofline's ruins I repair,
A folitary wretch forlorn;

To mourn, uninterrupted, there,
My hapless love, her hapless fcorn.

No found of joy disturbs my ftrain,
No hind is whiftling on the hill;
No hunter winding o'er the plain,
No maiden finging at the rill.

Efk, murm'ring thro' the dusky pines,
Reflects the moon's mist-mantled beam;
And Fancy chills, where'er it fhines,

To fee pale ghofts obfcurely gleam.

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