Like me, they flourish'd once in youthful bloom
Now cold and silent in the peaceful urn;

Like them, I soon must pass death's cheerless gloom,
And earth to earth, and dust to dust return.

SONNET

TO THE RIVER ORWELL,

BY I. T. SHEWELL.

The banks of this beautiful river are in general highly picturesque, especially when it becomes an Estuary at Downham Reach, about three or four miles below Ipswich; to which place it is navigable for ships of considerable burthen. The banks there rise into pleasing elevations, clothed with a rich luxuriancy of wood, and adorned with several good seats: and the river assumes the feature of a large lake, being to all appearance land-locked on every side. Vessels fitted up for the accommodation of passengers sail every tide from Ipswich to Harwich, a distance of about twelve miles, and back again; an excursion that is rendered truly delightful by the beauty of the surrounding

scenery.

The port of Ipswich is almost dry at ebb; but the returning tide generally rising about twelve feet, converts it into a magnificient sheet of water.

ORWELL, delightful stream, whose waters flow
Fring'd with luxuriant beauty to the main!
Amid thy woodlands taught, the Muse could fain,
On thee, her grateful eulogy bestow.
Smooth and majestic though thy current glide,
And bustling Commerce plough thy liquid plain;
Tho' grac'd with loveliness thy verdant side,

While all around enchantment seems to reign:

These glories still, with filial love, I taste,
And feel their praise; yet thou hast one beside
To me more sweet; for on thy banks reside,
Friendship and Truth combin'd; whose union chaste
Has sooth'd my soul;-and these shall bloom sublime,
When fade the fleeting charms of Nature and of Time.

STANZAS

Addressed to the Inhabitants of Yoxford, in 1787.

BY ANN CANDLER, A SUFFOLK COTTAGER.

Yoxford is a remarkably pleasant village, situated about four miles to the north of Saxmundham, on the Yarmouth road. On the north side of it is Cockfield Hall, formerly the seat of the Brook family, but now the residence of sir Charles Blois, bart. Here is also the neat mansion of David Elisha Davy, esq. receiver general of the land-tax for the eastern division of the county. This gentleman, in conjunction with Henry Jermyn, of Sibton, esq. has been long engaged in the compilation of a "History of Suffolk," a work devoutly to be wished, and for the completion of which their valuable and abundant collections, as well as their extensive knowledge in the antiquities and topography of the county, render them fully competent. That Suffolk should have remained so long without its legitimate historian, a county so respectable for its antiquities, and presenting so many topics of useful amusive speculation, may justly be esteemed a matter of surprise.

DEAR Village! sweet delightful spot!
Blest scene that gave me birth!
Though now, alas! unknown, forgot,
I wander o'er the earth.

Yet still thy name I will repeat;
A name how dear to me!
And, maugre this my wayward fate,
Will claim my part in thee.

Say, wilt thou love me in return
And love with pity join?

Not treat me with contempt or scorn,
Or blush to say I'm thine?

Still let this pleasing hope be mine,
Warm'd by a daily pray❜r:

And fav'ring heav'n to thee and thine,
Extend it's guardian care.

And ye, who in this darling spot,
Securely dwell serene,

Be ev'ry bliss in life your lot,

And pleasure paint each scene.

Still unembitter'd may you taste

The sweets of health and peace; While plenty decks the choice repast, And Ceres gives increase.

May commerce flourish unrestrain❜d,
In social strength elate,

While neighb'ring swains admiring stand,

To see your prosp❜rous state.

May justice all her rights assert

And bear impartial sway,

While truth and friendship, void of art,

Their native charms display.

When God or man you supplicate
May you not plead in vain ;
But seek to be as good, as great,
And what you ask obtain. *

ADDRESS TO THE

RIVER GIPPIN.

The River Gippin has its source at a small village in the centre of the county, near Stowmarket; to which it gives its name. Running in a south-east direction, it waters Ipswich; and assuming below that town the name of Orwell, proceeds to meet the Stour opposite Harwich.

It was made navigable from Stowmarket to Ipswich in 1793. It is sixteen miles in length, and has fifteen locks, each sixty feet long, and fourteen wide; three built with timber, and twelve with brick and stone. The total expence incurred in the undertaking was £26,380. The charges for the conveyance of goods upon it are one penny per ton per mile, from Stow to Ipswich, and half as much from the latter town to Stowmarket. Some idea may be formed of the beneficial effects of this navigation, from the statement, that soon after its completion, it had reduced the price of land-carriage more than one half, and the carriage only upon coals four shillings per chaldron, and consequently raised the rent of land considerably.

MEANDERING Gippin, loveliest stream,
That ever roll'd its limpid flood
Through many a rich sequestered mead,
And many an overhanging wood,

These lines were occasioned by reading a paragraph in the Ipswich Journal, that the inhabitants of Yoxford intended to petition parliament for a charter to hold a weekly market, whether such a petition were presented I know not.

I owe thee much; thy gentle tide
Deserves what I can ne'er bestow,
To flow along immortal lines,

As sweetly as thy waters flow.

O! had I those fame-giving powers,
Which Collins or which Gray may claim,
Poets unborn should haunt thy springs,
And grace their poems with thy name.

Oft, when above the eastern clouds
The sun hath peer'd in glorious pride,
Rapt in some sweet poetic dream,

I have wander❜d by thy willowy side,

And, while the linnet and the thrush

Have warbled sweet their wood-notes wild, Indulg'd the scene that fancy ting'd,

And many a fragrant hour beguil❜d.

Oft, in the fervid blaze of noon,
Sinking beneath the sultry gleam,
I've plung'd with Hope's impatient spring,
In thy invigorating stream;

Plung'd-and, while sporting in thy waves,
Derided disappointed Pride;
And with the vile and stagnant bath
Compar'd thy pure translucent tide.

Oft, too, in summer's evening mild
I've glided by thy bending shores,
Wafted along by gentle gales,

Or speeded by the dashing oars: