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III.

The broken fhaft that coward Malice rear'd
Shall to thy fame eternal luftre give,
Inscribe on Hift'ry's page thy name rever'd,
And bid it there with endless blazon live.
For there our fons' remoteft race,

In deathlefs characters, fhall trace

How Britain's baffled foes proclaim'd their hate,

And deem'd her Monarch's life the bulwark of the state.

IV.

Now ftrike a livelier chord-This happy day,
Selected from the circling year

To celebrate a name to Britain dear,
From Britain's fons demands a festive lay.
Mild Sov'reign of our Monarch's foul,
Whofe eye's meek radiance can controul
The pow'rs of Care and grace a throne
With each calm joy to life domeftic known,
Propitious Heav'n has o'er thy head
Bloffoms of richer fragrance fhed
Than all th' affiduous Mufe can bring,
Cull'd from the honey'd ftores of Spring:
For fee, amid wild Winter's hours
A Bud its filken folds difplay,
Sweeter than all the chalic'd flow'rs

That crown thine own ambrosial May.
O may thy fmiles, bleft infant, prove
Omens of concord, and of love!

Bid the loud ftrains of martial triumph cease,

And tune to fofter mood the warbling reed of Peace.

ODE on his MAJESTY's Birth Day, June 4, 1796.

W

By H. J. PYE, Efq. Poet-Laureat.

I.

7HERE are the vows the Mufes breath'd,
That Difcord's fatal reign might cease?
Where all the blooming flow'rs they wreath'd,
To bind the placid brow of Peace;
Whofe angel-form, with radiant beam,
Pictur'd in Fancy's fairy-dream,
Seem'd o'er Europa's ravag'd land,
Prompt to extend her influence bland.

Calm the rude clangors of the martial lay,

And hail with gentler note our monarch's natal day?

For

II.

For, lo on yon devoted thore,

Still through the bleeding ranks of war, His burning axles fteep'd in gore,

Ambition drives his iron car. Still his eyes, in fury roll'd,

Glare on fields by arms o'errun;
Still his hands rapacious hold

Spoils injurious inroad won;
And, fpurning with indignant frown
The fober olive's proffer'd crown,

Bids the brazen trumpet's breath

Swell the terrific blast of destiny and death.

III.

Shrinks Britain at the found? Though, while her eye
O'er Europe's defolated plains the throws,

Slow to avenge and mild in victory,

She mourns the dreadful fcene of war and woes :
Yet, if the foe, misjudging, read

Difmay in Pity's gentleft deed,

And, conftruing mercy into fear,
The blood-ftain'd arm of battle rear,

By infult rous'd, in juft refentment warm,

She frowns defiance on the threat'ning ftorm;
And, far as Ocean's billows roar,

By ev'ry wave encircled thore,

From where c'er icy feas the gaunt wolf roves,
To coafts perfum'd by aromatic groves;
As proudly to the ambient fky

In filken folds her mingled croffes fly;
The foothing voice of Peace is drown'd
A while in war's tumultuous found,

And ftrains, from Glory's awful clarion blown,
Float in triumphant peal around Britannia's throne.

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A beautiful SPRING in a VILLAGE.

From POEMS by S. T. COLERIDGe.

NCE more, fweet ftream, with flow foot wand'ring near,
I blefs the milky waters, cold and clear,

Efcap'd the flashing of the noontide hours
With one fresh garland of Pierian flowers
(Ere from thy Zephyr-haunted brink I turn),
My languid hand fhall wreath thy moffy urn;

For, not through pathlefs grove with murmur rude,
Thou footheft the fad wood-nymph SOLITUDE:

Nor

Nor thine, unfeen in cavern depths to dwell,
The Hermit-fountain of fome dripping cell!-
Pride of the vale, thy useful ftreams fupply
The fcatter'd cots and peaceful hamlet nigh.
The Elfin tribe around thy friendly banks,
With infant uproar and foul foothing pranks,
Releas'd from school, their little hearts at rest,
Launch paper navies on thy waveless breaft.
The Ruftic here at eve, with penfive look
Whistling lorn ditties, leans upon his crock,
Or, ftarting paufes with hope-mingled dread,
To lift the much-lov'd maid's accuftom'd tread:
She, vainly mindful of her dame's command,
Loiters-the long fill'd pitcher in her hand.
Unboaftful ftream, thy font with pebbled falls
The faded form of PAST delight recalls,
What time the morning fun of Hope arose,
And all was Joy, fave when another's Woes
A tranfient gloom upon my foul impreft-
Like paling clouds impictur'd on thy breaft?
Life's current then ran fparkling to the noon,
Or, filv'ry ftole beneath the penfive moon.
Ah, now it works rude brakes and thorns among-
Or o'er the rough rock burfts, and fpams along!

To Mrs. BISHOP, with a Pocket-Looking-Glass. Written by the late Rev. Mr. BISHOP, Master of Merchant-Tailors' School,

O you, dear Wife (and all must grant

T%

A wife no common confidante),

I dare my fecret soul reveal,
Whate'er I think, whate'er I feel;
This verfe, for inftance, I defign
To mark a female friend of mine,
Whom long with paffion's warmest glee
I've feen, and could for ever fee.
But hear me firft defcribe the dame;
If candour then can blame me-blame.
I've feen her charm, at forty, more
Than half her fex at twenty-four;
Seen her, with equal power and ease,
Draw right to rule, from will to please;
Seen her fo frankly give, and spare
At once, with fo difcreet a care,
As if her fenfe, and her's alone,
Could limit bounty like her own;
Seen her, in Nature's fimpleft guife,
Above arts, airs, and fathions, rife
And, when her peers the had furpass'd,
Improve upon herself at laft;

Seen her, in fhort, in ev'ry part,

Difcernment, temper, figure, heart,
So perfect, that 'till Heav'n remove her!
I must admire, court her, love her
Molly, I fpeak the thing I mean;
So rare a woman I have seen;
And fend this honeft glafs, that you,
Whene'er you please, may fee her too!

LENOR A.

A BALLAD, FROM BURGER.

From the Monthly Magazine.

The following translation (made fome years fince) of a celebrated piece, of which other verfions have appeared, poffeffes fo much peculiar and intrinfic merit, that we have given it the preference in this Selection.

A

T break of day, with frightful dreams
Lenora ftruggled fore:

My William, art thou flaine, fay'd fhe,
Or doft thou love no more?

He went abroade with Richard's hoft,

The Paynim foes to quell :

But he no word to her had writ,

An he were fick or well.

With fowne of trump, and beat of drum,
His fellow-foldyers come;

Their helmes bydeckt with oaken boughs,
They feeke their long'd-for home.

And ev'ry roade and ev'ry lane
Was full of old and young,
To gaze at the rejoicing band,

To hail with gladfome toung.

"Thank God?" their wives and children faide,
"Welcome!" the brides did faye :

But greete or kifs Lenora gave

To none upon that daye.

She afkte of all the paffing traine,

For him the wifht to fee:

But none of all the paffing traine
Could tell if lived hee.

And when the foldyers all were bye,

She tore her raven haire,

And caft herfelf

upon the

In furious despaire.

growne

Her

Her mother ran and lyfte her up,
And clasped in her arme,

" My child, my child, what doft thou ail?
God fhield thy life from harm!"

"O mother, mother! William's gone!
What's all befydes to me?
There is no mercye, fure, above!
All, all were fpar'd but hee!
"Knell downe, thy paternofter faye,
"Twill calm thy troubled fpright:
The Lord is wyfe, the Lord is good;
What hee hath done is right."
"O mother, mother! fay not fo;
Moft cruel is my fate:

I prayde, and prayde; but watte avayl'd?
'Tis now! alas too late."

"Our Heavenly Father if we praye,
Will help a fuff'ring childe:
Go take the holy facrament;
So fhall thy grief grow milde."

"O mother, what I feel within,
No facrament can staye;
No facrament can teche the dead
To bear the fight of daye."
"May be, among the heathen folk
Thy William falfe doth prove,
And puts away his faith and troth,
And takes another love.

Then wherefore forrow for his lofs?
Thy moans are all in vain :
And when his foul and body parte,
His falfehode brings him paine."
"O mother, mother! gone is gone:
My hope is all forlorne:

The grave mie onlye fafeguarde is-
O, had I ne'er been borne !

Go out, go out, my lampe of life;
In griflie darkness die :

There is no mercye, fure above!
For ever let me die!"

"Almighty God! O do not judge

My poor unhappy child;

She knows not what her lips pronounce,
Her anguifh makes her wilde.

VOL. XXXVIII.

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