1797. | 
For yet again, and lo! from Avon’s vales, 
Another Minftrel * cometh. Youth endear’d, 
God and good Angels guide thee on thy road, 
And gentler fortunes ’wait the friends I love! 
CHarLes LAMB. 
en 
7; Ey PAST, 
“ THE Splendid Shilling” mocks the pow’r 
of Time, 
And glows thro’ ages in Miltonic verfe ; 
But never poet, or in blank or rhime, 
Paid cheerful homage to an empty purfe! 
Oft’ as the Bard beheld thy vacant form, 
Worthlefs he deem’d the meed that Fame 
could pay ; 
Yet would th’ infpiring Mufe his bofom warm, 
And bid his fong furvive while thrones decay. 
_ For me would Genius once adorn the ftrain, 
No plaintive numbers fhould thy prefence own 3 
“To Want’s fad child thou meffenger of pain, 
I prize thee more than Beauty’s magic zone. 
Yes, the fair gift Serena’s art has twin’d 
For ufe, in fimple elegance complete, 
Shall be an emblem of her cultur’d mind, 
Where Senfe and Virtue with the Graces 
meet! 
Then let the Mifer count his glitt’ring hoard, 
The charms of grandeur let Ambition prove 3 
Be mine the wealth not Fortune can afford, 
The rich poffeffion of Serena’s love ! 
Is We 
eee 
TO STELLA, 
On her Birth-day, November 1, 1790. 
BY J. THELWALL. 
NOVEMBER, hallow’d month, and blefs’d! 
Affume, affume young Maia’s crown ; 
Affume, affume the vernal veft, 
And caft away thy wonted frown ! 
For, lo! to hail the genial day, 
How all the Sifter Graces wait ; 
And fmiling Loves the fhaft difplay, 
And lift the playful torch elate. 
Why all this joy, November? fay— 
Why {miles the fun, in pomp renew’d ? 
Why do the Mufes pour the lay 
To hail thy empire, once fo rude? 
Say, do the Seafons fudden change, 
And fecond Sp:ing triumphant bloom ? 
That Nature glows with pleafures frange, 
And Earth and Heav’n the {mile affurne ? 
Ah, no—not Spring again appears ; 
A brighter image decks the fcene ! 
Whofe mien the raptur’d fancy cheers 5 
For mental radiance gilds that mien ! 
*Tis STELLA, pride of CarMosE VALE, 
That brightens thus th’ autumnal mor! 
While gently fighs th’ enamour’d gale, 
That fondly hails her natal morn ! 
a i ret 


~# © From vales where Avon winds, the 
Minfrel came.” 
Coleridge's Morody on Chatterton, 
2 
Original Pociry. 
LINES 
Written in Shenficne’s Leafowes, 
BY MR. MOTT, OF CAMBRIDGEs 
S it Friendfhip that thus, on my heart, 
Impreffes both forrow and joy ? 
How I figh, with regret, to depart 
From the fcenes that I ne’er can enjey ! 
For thefe hills are enliven’d no more 
With the found from loft Corydon’s tongue, 
And the vallies. were never fo poor 
Of flow’rets, that bloom’d when he fung ? 
How languid the woodbines appear, 
That laugh’d with the breeze as it ftray’d 
And the lily is pearl’d with a tear, 
As it droops in his favourite fhade. 
Sigh, figh, ye foft gales, in defpair ; 
Ye ftreams, in fad murmurs complain ; 
For Genius can never repair 
The lofs.of your favourite fwain ! 
O’er the grave of Simplicity’s child 
The kiffes of Nature fhall ftray, 
To nourifh the flow’r that’s wild, 
To add the frefh bloffoms of May. 
And Pity fhall oftentimes rove, 
Unattended by Envy or Care, 
To loiter in Corydon’s grove, 
And crown what he lov’d with a tear 
Ee 
SONNET: 
J ONELY my way, when. laft along this 
road, 
Heart-fick and fad I journey’d; as I went, 
Brooding o’er many a dream of difcontent, 
O’er many a cherith’d forrow ; nor beftow’d 
Nature’s gay fcenes one charm to cheer my ways 
For on the funny fcene, with recklefs eye, 
Sullen I gaz’d, and pafs’d unheeding by | 
Sweet are the forrows of that dittant day 
To painlefs memory ! O’er the felf-fame plain 
i journey, blithe of heart; nor heed the wind 
Sad moaning, nor the dark-defcending rain : 
For Hope with lovelieit vifions fills my naind, 
Of ev’ry blamelefs joy by Virtue giv’n, 
Of Peace and Love—oh, realize them, Heav’n? 
S; 
eee ee 
SONNET. 
~O, place the fwallow. on yon turfy bed, 
~ Much will he ftruggle, but can neyer rife ; 
Go, raife him even with the daify’s head, 
And the poor twittrer like an arrow flies ! 
So, oft’ thro? life the man of pow’rs and worthy, , 
Haply the cat’rer for an infant train, 
Like Burns mufk ftruggle on the bare-worn earth, - 
While all his efforts to arife are vain ! 
Yet, thould the hand of relative or friend 
Just from the furface lift the fuff’ring wight, 
£oon would the wings of induftry extend, 
Soon would he rife from anguifh to delight ! 
Gothen, ye Affluent, go, your hands outfiretch, 
And from Defpair’s dark verge, oh! raife the 
woe-worn wretch! 
SONNET, 
