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BY J. ATKINSON.
Author of Rodolpho, a Poetical Romance.
CHILL blew the north-wind, the ocean loud roaring,
Faint and fatigu'd as the evening drew on;
From a wreck sav'd, a stranger, his fate was deploring,
And the tears flow'd apace as he wander'd alone:
Alas! on the storm-beaten shore broken-hearted,
He sighs, from his dearest friends cruelly parted;
And now on an isle, but by wild beasts, deserted,
With anguish he thinks on the days that are gone.
Friends of my childhood, ye hear not my wailing,
Tremendous the white surges burst on the shore ;
O parents so dear!—but 'tis all unavailing,
I die on a land you may live to deplore.
Blest be the hand, distrest virtue relieving,
Happy your home, heaven's blessing receiving,
And when this worn bosom the last sigh is heaving,
I'll bless those dear friends I can never see more.
See o'er the billows yon vessel swift sailing,
Bear it, ye winds, where distracted I mourn;
Ah, no! it recedes, and the blue mist prevailing,
Buries that hope, which would murmur return.
With sorrow o'ercome, and the night dull and dreary,
Not one friendly star in the heav'ns to cheer me,
Here I recline on the bank, wet and weary,
From my home, and the sweets of society torn.
Sad was my soul when I left ANNA weeping,
Beauty and worth droop'd, when destin'd to sail; High on the beach with my fond heart in keeping, Trembling in tears, she sigh'd " WILLIAM farewel !” Memory still lives, and our sweet pastime traces, But gone is all pleasure, no more my caresses
Shall charm-and no more shall our kindred embrace us,
O friends of my childhood for ever farewel!
Hark! from the wild wood I hear a dire screaming
Loud it resounds o'er the black-heaving main;
Wolves and fell tigers, with eyes fiercely gleaming,
Furious descend on the blood-scented plain;
Save me, ye rocks-to your covert retreating;
Save a pale wretch these dread spoilers from meeting;
Hide me awhile-but my heart wildly beating,
Tells me, I'll ne'er see my country again.
Where can I fly, that no savage can chase me !
No safeguard is here like our own cottage door;
Peril awaits at each step to distress me ;
The mountains and vales are streak'd over with gore.
Then where can I fly ? on all sides the wide ocean-
O ANNA may mourn with the tenderest emotion;
May sigh, and oft joining in fervent devotion,
May bless him, alas! she can never see more!”
He ceas'd, agoniz'd with reflection, for never
Again could he visit his dear native vale :
Parted from home, and his ANNA for ever!
Alone, amidst horror, his lot to bewail.
Heard you that half-stifled groan ? Still how dearly
The image of her, whom he loves so sincerely,
He hugs to his heart-feels the last pang severely,
And cries-"O my ANNA, for ever farewel!"
TO MISS E. R.
Say what is Love? 'Tis joy extreme,
'Tis hope elate-'tis bliss supreme,
A world, by Fancy dress'd,
Where odours rise with every gale,
And rapture swells in every sail;
?Tis blessing-to be bless'd.
And what is love? An idle dream;
Some ranting, crack-brain'd poet's theme,
The fair one's sport and scorn,
A vulture, that delighted feeds,
On him whose manly bosom bleeds,
O'er hope become forlorn.
Yes; what is love? A meteor blaze,
Which scarcely gives you time to gaze
Ere you may say-" tis gone :"
And then, involv'd in darker night,
Leaves you to mourn its transient flight!
With hope for ever flown!
BENEDICT TO " HER HE DEARLY LOVES."
On the Reinstatement of her Health, by a short Excursion into the Country.
My sweet little Sopk, (whom it is but to know,
And if you don't doat on, I'm sure you'll admire!)
Felt the fever's dire heat in her veins fiercely glow,
And the gay bloom of health seem'd to daily expire!
When from town and from tumult, by him she was borne,
Whose love is as lasting as honour's his pride,
To hope's flattering mansion, the building don't scorn,
For 'tis but a cottage anear the road side.
Tho' pallid her cheek, when first kiss'd it the breeze,
Tho' trembled her limbs when they first press'd the mead,
Zephyr fann'd till the rose ting'd her cheek by degrees,
And tho' light as a gossamer, firm was her tread;
In each feature beam'd health, with success again strove,
To sickness the vanquish'd intruder deride,
And attended by friendship, and cherish'd by love,
She reign'd queen of the cottage anear the road-side!
May she reign there as long as she'll reign in this heart,
(My reign of existence) increasing health's charms,
And ne'er from that mansion prepare to depart,
Till like mine, her fond wish is "to dwell in these arms!'
Then cheerfully bidding the cottage adieu,
Which proud of her residence pleasure supplied,
Let her boast, I resign it, to fly love to you,
Restor❜d by the cottage anear the road-side.
THE REPLY CHURLISH.
"SAY, pensive stranger, wherefore Discontent
Spreads her black pinions o'er thy clouded soul;
Why on the ground are all thy glances bent ?
Why does stern Grief thy mournful breast control?
Say, dost thou groan beneath Oppression's hand?
Hast thou of Poverty's sad potion drank ?
Or hast thou fled, for crimes, thy native land ?”
"Oh, no! but d-n it, Sir, I've drawn a blank !”
TO THE NIGHTINGALE.
LORN Minstrel! why that melancholy wail,
That floats so melting o'er the blossom'd spray?
Say-is thy breast to cruel Love a prey,
That thus thou dost Eve's balmy zephyrs hail?
Cannot thy sighs, and sad melodious tale,
Bid Pity meet thee on thy pensive way,
To cheer the heart-springs of thy little day,
And waft thy sorrows on Oblivion's gale ?
If not-full well I feel thy bosom'd woe,
For, ah! like thee, I've prov'd the madd'ning pain
Of Love relentless-and I still retain
That which oft makes the crystal tears to flow;
Yet, not like thee, will I, sweet bird, complain, For soon I hope life's soothing joys to know.
TO G. DYER, B. A.
On reading his Poems and Essays, just published.
BY THE AUTHOR OF THE PEASANTS FATE."
DYER! the world has been amus'd too long,
With the false pomp of imitative song;
Proud of the chains their ancestors bequeath'd,
Their aching brows with wither'd laurels wreath'd,
Our Bards have long pursued a beaten road,
Where, tho', of old, poetic flow'rs have blow'd ;
No blossom now, o'er all th' ungrateful soil,'
Rewards the patient searcher's anxious toil.
Transported from their own congenial sphere,
Latian and Grecian Gods have languish'd here;
Ideal beings trod our native plains,
And fawns and satyrs scared the British swains :-
Our Thomson dar'd oppose this idle rage,
And Goldsmith chas'd th' intruders from his page.
Well, DYER! hast thou left the slavish crowd,
That round the tyrant Custom meanly bow'd—
Tho' train'd amidst th' idolators, hast spurn'd
Their shackles, and with generous ardor burn'd,
To sweep the impassion'd cords, where raptures stray,
And wake Simplicity's enfranchis'd lay ;
To re-instate great Nature on her throne,
And guide mankind to bend to her, and her alone!
Bacchus with thy clus'tring vine
Round about my brows entwine ;
Bring with thee the flowing bowl,
That with rapture fills my soul:
Let the rosy queen of Love
Lave awhile the Cyprian grove,
With her nymphs, whose beauty rare
Shall smooth the brow of carking care.
Then fill the goblets to the brim,
And quick imbibe the potent stream,
Let the Circean draught go round,
And mirth, gay mirth and wine abound;
While quaffing thus the purple tide,
Swift the laughing hours shall glide,
Free from heart-corroding sorrow,
Till Phoebus ushers in the morrow.
Replenish then the wasted treasure,
And reassume our wonted pleasure :
Thus, blest with wine, and blest with love,
I envy not immortal Jove.