1803. | Original Poetry. 
The fmiles of the morning I welcome no So fhall thy aoproneh be with rapture be- 
more, ‘ held, 
For gone is the feafon when beauty could And there may’ thou fread thy gay page 
pleafe ; to the aahe ns as es 
Jn vain may the warblers their melody pour, And I tafte thofe bieffings thy prefente with~ 
And unfelt is the breath of the w antoning held, ‘ ry ‘ 
breeze. While Hope’s dear illufions ftill, fill may . 
And thou too, bright Orb} what haft thou delight, a 
to beftow ? j L. §. TemMrre. 
Can’ft thou give to my eyes the lov’d Newark, Yan. 10, 1803. 
forms they have loft ? i 
a 
Can thy radiance difperfe the thick low’rings 
of woe? 
Can it thaw the ftern rigour of ae s bits 
ter froft? 4 
And youth too, that oft boafted ele: of joy, 
When life’s mantling current mounts high 
in each vein, 
What, alas ! can its lively emotions fupply, 
When all thole emotions are waken’d by 
ain ? 
Oh hades of the paft that fucceffively rife ! 
Pale fpectres of joys that for ever are fled! 
At whofe mournful prefence gay happinefs 
dies, 
My footfteps who follow wherever I tread : 
°Tis ye that my foul of all rapture beguile ; 
Ye fade the luxuriance of fummer’s foft 
bloom ; 
Ye dim the fair luftre of morn’s funny {mile, 
And from the gay throng call my mind te 
the tomb. 
When day’s golden lamp has defcended to reft, 
And is lord of the wild-blufhing landfcape 
no more ; 
‘When the veil of the evening fteals flow o’er 
the Wett, 
And the night-breeze, awaking, blows 
frefh on the-fhore : . 
"Ys then that I wander to welcome its fighs, 
And to mufe o’er the flumber of Nature’s 
foft charms ; 
More lovely this twilight than noon’s 
dies ; 
How foothing the filence no tumult alarms ! 
But what are thofe accents I hear in the 
breeze ? 
And what is that pale-form, which weep- 
ingIview? ~ 
Where now is the pow’r of each beauty to 
pleafe ? 
Where now the repofe which ie ie befom 
knew? 
Wherever I gaze, the dear feces appear, 
In the world’s bufy haunts, or the ab 
lonely grove ; 
When the fighs of the low oe of evening 
I hear, 
I hear tov the {weet- warbling notes of my 
love. 
Fly, fly, then, Remembrance, where happi- 
nefs reigns ; 
Oh vifit fome fky more unclouded than 
mine : 
Refide in the breaft where no canker re- 
mains, 
Where the broad beams of pleafure unceaf- 
ingly thine: 
MONTHLY Mac. No, 98. 
vivid 
-figning the flighteft reafon for it. 
‘ginal) ftanzas, 
~ Rather he fhuns, than afks relief— 
149 
Peritas nonin Puteo. 
Orti had heard the fages fay, 
-Truth in a Well concealed Jay + 
Eager to find the goddefs out, 
In vain I fearch’d the wells about 5 
At lat, exerting all my wit, 
I found her in a Gravel-pit. 
Hackney, Dec. 30s 
ea 
POOR JOE. 
A Wretched-looking old man is well-remem- 
bered by many who are ftill alive, to have 
long wandered from place to place, without 
indicating a wifh of becoming a refideat any 
where. When prefled to difclofe the caufe 
of his uneafinefs, he invariably declined af- 
Indeed, in 
all his migrations, he was never heard to 
utter any thing but ¢* Poor Joes alone ! poor 
Joe’s alone ! me Eis manner was unimpat~ 
fioned, his expreflion without variety of tone, 
yet his wofce was rather tremulous. This 
circumftance gave rife to the following (orle 
-The vulgar, who are always 
iuperftitious, knew him only by the appella- 
tion of the ‘* Wandering Jew.” ew 
THE MISANTHROPIST. 
O Mark the aged wanderer’s ftep, 
And grief- -worn form ; his tearlefs eye, 
By forrow drain’d, forgets to weep ; 
He fcarcely byeaches the ling’ring figh : 
So itill, yet fo profound, his grief, 
We rather feel, than hear, ah groan 5 
*¢ Poor Joe’s alone ! poor Joe’s alone!” - 
Nor him the churlifh winters {pare ; 
His fhrinking frame, and hoary locks ! 
Therude winds jafh his filvery hairs ; 
The pelting’ orm his mifery mocks 5 
Yet, while his hollow looks betray 
The throb fappreft, the fecret moane ~ 
No words but thefe his griefs convey, 
“6 Poor Joe's alone ! poor Joe’s alone! ” 
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But though, to paint the woes he feels, 
No words but thefe he feems to know 3 
From habit yet perchance he fteals . 
A moment’s refpite from his woe 5 
They ferve to foothe, with magic power, 
The fenfe of griefs too mighty grown, 
Thus meafuring every joylefs hour— 
«6 Poor foc’s alone! poor Joe’s alone!" 
yg : 
Ia 
