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Oft as I mark the tribes of air, I cry, (wind!

“ How with your pinions would I mount the “Oh! with what rapture lifted, cleave the sky, “ And, turn’d to BRITAIN, leave my cares

behind !”

In wishes thus, I daily waste my breath,

Chain'd by the tempest to this hated shore; When shall I leave, alas ! this land of death,

For life and thee, to part, my Love, no more?


To a Friend, describing the horrors of his situation

after the death of JULIA.

Friend of my bosom, all my joys are o'er

Peace, gentle Peace, alas! no longer mine: Since JULIA, once my idol, lives no more,

To gloom and solitude I steal to pine.

There, as I sit upon the sod, and sigh,

I hear reproof from every happy dove; In fancy's ear they, cooing, seem to cry,

“ We know not of inconstancy in love."

my soul!

Lo, darkness, tenfold darkness suits

The haunts of spectres let me court to weep; The beach where black with fate the billows roll,

And, tempests raise the thunders of the DEEP.

Thou tellest me that Time a balm will bring,

Soothe ev'ry sigh, and calm my keenest woes : ' Go, seek in winter's wild the blooms of spring;

Go, whisper to the restless surge, repose !

Love, injur'd Love, a sure revenge can boast; Love hears my groan, and mocks my

soul's despair :

[lost; “ Bleed, Victim, bleed,” he cries" thy all is

“ Such be their portion who deceive the FAIR!”

I thought that GRANDEUR with a lib'ral hand

Could strew my path of life with sweetest flow'rs; That WEALTu omnipotent could TIME command,

And from his pinions pluck his whitest hours.

Constant in Mem'ry's eye her form appears.

Where'er I tread, a source of woe I find; In ev'ry rill methinks I see her tears,

And hear her sigh in ev'ry passing wind.

Wliat now remains, my horrors to beguile ?

Away, ye dreams of grandeur, wealth, away! Wbo cannot give my check one little smile,

Nor bribe a single moment to be guy.

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Supposed to be spoken by a Lady, on receiving a lock of

the Duke D'ENGHIEN's hair, which he desired to be cut off and presented to her after his execution.–To this Lady, report says, the Duke was very soon to have been married,


DEAR Relic, to me, ah! divine!

( welcome, no more to depart; On this bosom of sorrow recline,

Thy presence will soothe my poor heart.

Thou wilt hear the complaint of fond Love,

And pity the rigour of FATE;
Thou wilt hear the lorn voice of the dove,

Lamenting the loss of her mate,

So pure of our pleasures the spring,

We rivall’d the ages of old,
Time brought not a care on his wing,

For his moments were moments of gold.

Near my heart, thou, rich Relic ! shalt lie,

While I wander life's valley of gloom; And when thy Companion shall die,

We will join in the sleep of the Tomb.



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