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Now lightsome o'er the level mead,
Where midnight fairies rove;
Or tune the reed to love.
She claims a virgin queen;
'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.
BY MISS MARY JULIA YOUNG.
Hail gentle spirits, who, with magic wing,
Chase the dark clouds of sullen night away; And from her murky cave, my freed soul bring,
To revel in the radiant beams of day!
What are you, say? or earthly, or divine,
Who this can cheer the pause of dull repose ? With chemic art the dross of sleep refine,
And beauteous scenes to curtain'd eyes disclose.
What are you, who, subduing time and space,
To bless the moments, can a friend restore?
And grateful own--your power can give no more.
BY M. G. LEWIS, ESQ.M.P.
Occasioned by a Lady's being alarmed at a mad
Woman, known by that appellation.
Wux fair maid, in ev'ry feature,
Are such signs of fear express'd ? Can a wand'ring wretched creature
With such terrors fill thy breast? Do my frenzied looks alarm thee?
Trust me, sweet-thy fears are vain; Not for kingdoms would I harm thee,
Shun not then poor Crazy Jane.
Dost thou weep to see my anguish?
Mark me! and avoid any woe; When men flatter, sigh, and languish,
Think them false-I found them so : For I lov'd-oh! so sincerely,
None could ever love again; But the youth I lov'd so dearly,
Stole the wits of Crazy Jane.
Fondly my young heart receiv'd him,
Which was doom'd to love but one; He sigh’d, he vow'd, and I believ'd him,
He was false--and I undone.
From that hour has reason never
Held her empire o'er my brain;
Fled the wits of Crazy Jane.
Now forlorn and broken-hearted,
And with frenzied thoughts beset;
On that spot where first we met.
Still I slowly pace the plain;
Cries—God help thee, Crazy Jane!
TO HIS FRIEND
I would not have you, Strephon, chuse a mate
Let her have wit, but let that wit be free
THE FUNERAL PROCESSION,
see! the well-plum'd hearse comes nodding on, Stately and slow, and properly attended By the whole sable tribe, that painful watch The sick man's door and live upon the dead,
By letting out their persons by the hour
ON HEARING THE TOLLING OF A BELL.
BY THE REV. MR. RIVERS.
A PENSIVE sadness overwhelms my soul,
And fills my mind with melancholy dread; For, hark! I hear the solemn awful toll,
That leads my thoughts to contemplate the dead.