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Here first I saw the morn appear
Here mark'd the soft declining ray-
Gave splendour to the parting sun; Now lost in sorrow's sable night,
And all their mingled glories gone! 'Till death, in pity, end my care, I must remember such things were.
Sir John Henry More, Bart, who died in the year 1780, about the age of 25: His true poetical powers cannot be better proved than by the following lines, which he wrote to a Lady a few months before his death, being then in an evident decay:
IF in that breast, so good, so pure,
Pity the sorrows I endure,
The cause I must not-dare not tell.
The grief that on my quiet preys,
That rends my heart, that checks my tongue,
I fear will last me all my days,
But feel-it will not last me long.
A WINTER PIECE.
"Oh! cruel was my father, that shut his door on me! "And cruel was my mother that such a sight could see; "And cruel is the wint'ry wind that chills my heart with cold,
"But crueller than all, the lad that left my love for gold!
"Hush, hush, my lovely baby, and warm thee in my breast,
"Ah! little thinks thy father how sadly we're distrest! "For cruel as he is, did he know but how we fare, “He'd shield us in his arms from this ätter piercing air.
"Cold, cold, my dearest jewel! thy little life is gone! "Oh, let my tears revive thee! so warm that trickle down;
My tears that gush so warm, oh! they freeze before they fall,
"Ah! wretched, wretched mother! thou'rt now bereft of all."
Then down she sunk, despairing, upon the drifted snow, And, wrung with killing anguish, lamented loud her woe: She kiss'd her baby's pale lips, and laid it by her side, Then cast her eyes to heaven, and bow'd her head and died. Literary Magazine.
OF THE FOREGOING ELEGY.
VESPER erat; campis et nix hyemosa ruebat,
"Heu! pater ille ferus, natæ qui tecte negavit,
"Parvule m., taceas, gremio renovesque calorem ;
"Blandulæ væ! friges, friges; calor ossa reliquit;
Jam nive congesta misere prolabitur exspes
FRIEND of the wretch whose boson bleeds,
When tort'ring thought to thought succeeds,
To me how sweet life's early dawn,
E'er, then, to wan despair a prey,
E'er sorrow's bitter cup runs o'er,
But if I court thine aid in vain,
If slow reluctance guides thine eye, Death then alone can ease my pain, And hush to peace the rising sigh: He sets the pining captive free, And gives the balm for misery.
THE TENDER WISH.
FROM. her, alas! whose smile was love,
Be all her little arts forgot,
That fill'd my bosom with alarms; Ah! let her crime-a little spot
Be lost amid her blaze of charms.
As on I wander slow, my sighs
Deluded heart! thy folly know,
Nor fondly nurse the fatal flame; By absence thou shalt lose thy woe, And only flutter at her name.