1824.] — 
Till it is sick, on all its pageant charms, 
And gay delusive scenes, whose only aim 
It is to charm, to ‘lure, and then to ruin. 
Conduct me then, with quicken’d step, 
To Virtue’s still retreat, where hermit grey, 
Beside the glassy streamlet,: builds his ceil. 
Now, while the sun is set behind the hill, 
And nature gladly owns fair Cynthia’s sway, 
And nought but Philomel, in distant grove, 
Telling her tale of love, at intervals 
Disturbs the general calin; come, sit thee 
down, / ' 
And bid thy lyre awake to plaintive strains : 
So as the harp A£olian, when the breeze 
Sweeps fitful o’er its wires, and soothes, the 
ear of woe. 
The reason why I woo. such. melancholy 
strains, 
In pity dost thouask ? Ah! gladly will I tell, 
For Sorrow loves to speak its tale of grief, 
And pour upon the ear of Sympathy 
Tts accents mournful. 
Know then, O Muse, it is for love I mourn ; 
Its dart my soul has piere’d. Full long I bore 
The smart, nor sought another cure than that 
Which philosophic Fortitude could give. 
At length, no longer able to endure 
The agonizing pang, with suppliant knee 
I told my grief, and sought the balm of pity. 
Ah! wretched youth, why didst thou e’er 
disclose 
The tender passion ? Why not rather far 
Thy suffering still have borne, or sought, 
As now thou dost, the solitary spot where 
Grief 
Retires to weep, and Melancholy strays 
All pensive and forlorn. Here Nature kind 
(Ah! why is woman’s heart less kind ?) has 
shed : 
A sympathetic stillness ; all around 
Gives mournful audience to tales of woe. 
Yes, then thou hadst escap’d the look 
indignant, 
Nor cruel Scorn had mingled in thy cup 
Its dregs of bitterness. S—, dost thou think 
* Twas well, thus cruelly to spurn the soft 
And tender proffers of devoted love ? 
Would not a:milder look, a gentler accent, 
Aswell have told thy ‘fixed determination ?? 
For then I could have borne the sad denial; 
And e’en reproof, thus mixed with tender- 
ness, 
Fad been a balm my suff ’rings to allay, 
And time, perchance, had healed the throb- 
bing wound. 
Dost thou not love? Why then, my soul, 
As back it turns on past occurrences, 
Remonstrates fondly, why so sweetlybeam’d 
Thine eye, as once it turn’d to court the 
glance 
Which timid love had else not dar’d to cast ? 
Ah! why did pity, tenderness, and love, 
Together mingled, dart a ray delusive 
Athwart the gloom: that long had press’d 
' my soul: rat 
Like as the sudden light of meteor wild, 
Which for a moment shines in blackest hight 
Upon the traveller’s dreary path, to cheat 
His timid step, and mock his gaze bewildér'’d. 
Original Poetry. 
143 
And do I, can I then still love thee, S—? 
Ah, Love! how potent is thy spell! thy 
power 
How irresistible ! 
Reason ; 
Tn vain she chides my folly, fires my soul 
To manly, pride, contempt, and. conscious 
shame : : 
In vain she bids me burst th’ iznoble chains 
A fair, but cruel and unfeeling hand, 
Has bound around me. Still. I lie the wil- 
ling slave 
Of beauty’s charms. Yes, yes—still I love. 
And while I love thee, I must wish thee 
well. 
May fortune’s smiles attend thee—round thy 
path 
Throw a perpetual radiance. Or, if e’er 
Her frown malignant thou art called to bear, 
If e’er the keenly piercing pang of grief 
(For thick her darts fly round these mortal 
shores) 
Should wound thy gentle breast; or bid the 
tear : 
Of anguish dire to stain thy lovely cheek, _ 
Ah! then may friendship’s choicest gift be 
thine, 
The gift of sympathy—a heavenly balm 
To heal the wound and chase away the tear. 
But oh! whatever be thy lot—whateyer 
sufferings - 
Thou art call’d to bear, as through this vale 
of tears 
Thou travellest, may thy soft and virtuous 
breast 
Ne’er feel the pang that rends my bleeding 
heart, 
The pang of disregarded love. 
These are my wishes—these shall be my 
prayers. 
Yes, in that sweetly solemn hour, when man 
Holds converse with his Maker, thy lovely 
name, 
On accents soft shall rise, and every good 
That prayer commands at Mercy’s lib’ral 
hand : 
Shall flow to thee. 
And now farewell ! 
farewell! 
Science recals my wandering steps. Too long 
In Love’s delusive paths I’ve strayed. Again, 
With emulative feet, Iseek the road 
That leads to peace, to virtue, and to fame. 
D.R.T. 
In vain remonstrates 
And thou, my Muse, 
4b 
DIRGE FOR THE GRAVE OF 
KORNER. 
FROM THE GERMAN. 
Sray your walk, ye weeping throng, 
Rest the bier in mournful show, 
Hush awhile your funeral song, 
Bear not hence.the sight of woe. 
We were met beneath this tree, 
Wreaths for Freedom’s feast to twine, 
- Here to coil the dance of glee, 
‘+ 
Here to quaff the sparkling wine, 
