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The genuine muse removes the thin disguise,

That cheats the world, whene'er she deigns to sing; And full as meritorious to her eyes

Seems the poor soldier, as the mighty king!

Alike I shun in labour'd strain to show,

How Britain more than triumph'd, tho' she fled, Where Louis stood, where march'd the column slow, I turn from these and dwell upon the dead.

Yet much my beating breast respects the brave; Too well I love them, not to mourn their fate; Why shou'd they seek for greatness in the grave? Their hearts are noble,—and in life they're great,

Nor think 'tis but in war the brave excel,-
To valour ev'ry virtue is allied!
Here faithful friendship 'mid the battle fell,
And love, true love, in bitter anguish died.

Alas! the solemn slaughter I retrace,

That checks life's current circling thro' my veins, Bath'd in moist sorrow many a beauteous face, And gave a grief, perhaps, that still remains.

I can no more-an agony too keen

Absorbs my senses, and my mind subdues; Hard were that heart that here could beat serene, Or the just tribute of a pang refuse.

But lo! thro' yonder op'ning clouds afar
Shoots the bright planet's sanguinary ray,
That bears thy name, fictitious lord of war!
And with red lustre guides my lonely way.

Then Fontenoy, farewell! yet much I fear,

(Wherever chance compels my course) to find Discord and blood-the thrilling sounds I hear, "The noise of battle hurtles in the wind."

From barb'rous Turkey to Britannia's shore,
Opposing interests into rage increase;
Destruction rears her sceptre, tumults roar,
Ah! where shall hapless man repose in peace.


Della Crusca.

THE western sun is sunk beneath the main, Hush'd are the birds on ev'ry leafy spray; The moon full orb'd begins her silent reign, And man now rests from all the cares of day.

The distant clock proclaims the midnight hour, The river's murmur fills the sighing gale; The screaming owl from the dismantled tow'r, Gives to the night her long resounding wail.


The tortur'd breast now paints athwart the gloom,
Terrific forms that swim before the mind;
The spectre hov'ring o'er the recent tomb,
And stops, and trembles at each breath of wind.

Be mine the solemn scene, from folly free,

The peaceful hour, which providence has giv❜n, To raise my wand'ring thoughts O God! to thee! To caln my mind, and wing my soul to heav'n.

C. S.



WITHIN this cool embow'ring shade,
This sweet retreat for lovers made;
Amidst the glitt❜ring pearls of morn,
That ev'ry leaf and spray adorn;
How sweetly blooms this op'ning rose!
How fresh its purple lustre glows!
Soft odours round its beauties play;
How fragrant in the cool of day!

Oh! blest with youth and form'd for love,
Lavinia regent of the grove!

Of sense refin'd and simple taste,

With rural innocency grac'd;
That unaffected state of mind,
Which few from books, or breeding find;

Alike from awkard silence free, And loud insipid gaiety; Whose conduct all must so approve, That all must envy, or must love: O! sweeter than the dawning rose, Whose cheeks a livelier blush disclose! When soon, drawn forth to open day, You shine amidst the young and gay, Where flatt'ry throws her gilded dart, Vice skulks beneath each modish art, May no mistaken excellence To folly sooth your vig'rous sense: No courtly airs, with honour's face, Refine to guilt each virgin grace: No taste from Italy or France, Corrupt your native elegance! May you, secure from the extremes Of scandal's blasts, or flatt'ry's beams, Reserve, for gen'rous Strephon's arms, Your beauty's bloom, and virgin charms! Euphrosyne.


IN bloom of youth, with spirits gay,
Thro' life's brisk trade I made my way;
School's 'prenticeship with labour pass'd,
Methought I could not live too fast ;

Wholesale laid in my stock of joys,
All bought by weight avoir-du-pois:
And still my happiness I found
Full sixteen ounces to the pound.

But age comes on with gouty pains;
Life's trade grows dull, and small my gains;
Now fate retails my scanty pleasure,

By d-mn'd apothecary's measure :

By drams and scruples now I live,
No longer taste what life can give :
My bliss weighs light, sad cares prevail;
And constant mis'ry turns the scale.



As late beneath yon spreading shade
Of willows, quivering o'er the brook,
I sat with Lucia, lovely maid!

With pensive air and downcast look.

She view'd the flower which, in her walk,
She gather'd from th' enamell'd mead,
That now oppress'd its bending stalk,

And, withering, droop'd its languid head.

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