1804.] ( 
547 _) 
ORIGINAL POETRY, 
el 
DARTMOOR. 
WAKE, ye breezes of the South,and pour 
Your balmy fweets, like incenfe, on 
my brow, 
Melting with heat, upon this defert moor, 
Whofe barren bofom feeds no fhady bough. 
Yet, in the centre of this circling wild, 
With hillocks fwelling like the billowy 
fea, 
The Lord of Light fupports his lonely child, 
And bids his fun unclouded fhine on me. 
His hand condués me down this mountain 
vale, 
Where mufic murmurs in the fparkling 
ftream 5 
While over head the fky-lark tunes his tale, 
On wings quick glowing to the fummer 
beam, 
He makes my foul with warm affeétion glow 
For young Lucinda, whom I love fo weli: 
Ye ftreams, for her, of balmy pleafure flow ; 
Ye gales of Hope, each louring cloud 
difpel ! 
Reft in the pleafant fhade, thou gentle flow’r! 
Whofe image foothes my heart by night or 
noon ; 
When eve returns, with me forfake thy 
bow’r, 
To walk beneath the luftre of the moon! ~ 
Father of Life! this tender bloffum fpare, 
And let her blooming charms awhile be 
. Mine; 
Then, inthe fpirit of the Eaftern’s prayer, 
I die, my Love! and all my years be thine! 
Brook. W. Evans. 
eR 
COMPARATIVES. 
‘PPRESH is the fragrance of the new-mown 
hay, 
That breathes its fweetnefs with the rifing 
gale, 
When in the east the morning leads the day, 
Or evening flings her fhadows o’er the vale. 
Sweet are the blufhes of the opening rofe, 
Queen of the flowers! adorn’d with fpark- 
ling dew ; 
And bright the star of fading twilight glows, 
And mild the moon flow-ftealing to the 
view !} 
‘Yet far more fragrant is my darling’s breath ; 
More bright her eye; her blufh more foft 
and fair ; 
With magic Guile; to charm the ftroke of 
Death, 
‘And fnatch his viGim back to light and 
air. 
But hark’! I hear her blithe enchanting 
voice, 
That bids my tongue be mute, my heart re= 
joice. 
W. EVAN Se 
ODE TO MR. PACKWOOD. 
Strops and the man I fing, who whilom came | 
From Severw's banks; now Ibames refounds bis 
fame. 
An Imit. 
"T HOU, who haft fet at nought the grinder’ 3 
ftone, 
And rendered obfolete the barber’s hone 3 
Who to a blunted pen-knife doft impart 
The razor’s keennefs—fuch thy magic art? 
Oh, Packwood! fmoothly could my verfe 
begin, 
And finifh, as thy ftrop has left my chin, 
Thy praife on Zephyr’s gentle wing should 
oat 
From Cornwall to the houfe of Joha o’Groat. 
When Cook, whofe well-earn’d fame fhall 
ne’er decay, 
Q’er Southern climes purfued his vent’rous 
Way's 
A knife once fhaved an Otaheitan chief, 
>Twas a kind tar that gave his chin relief 5 
Oh, Packwood! then had generous Britain 
known 
Thy matchlefs arts, the fondly calls her own, 
The chief had danc’d for joy, nor car’d ta 
ftop, 
Rich uote the prefent of thy patte and @rop. 
To victors, then, fhall praife fublime be paid, 
For ruthleis deeds who whet the glittering 
blade; 
The meed of verfe fhall Philip’s fon attain; 
Or Cefar wake the bard’s heroic ftrain, 
And Packwood live unfung 3—who gives te 
ftee] 
A blamelefs edge, *tis almoft blifs to feel ? 
For wit and razors well, ’tis faia, I ween, 
Both pain us leaft if exquifitely keen, 
Ye! who have calmly felt the razor ftray 
Adown your cheeks, as Packwood fmoothe¢ 
the way, 
So fmoothed the way that hunters have not 
fear’d, 4 
While bent on fpeed, to mow the briftly 
beard: 
Ye fons of Fafhion ! ever fmart and fleek, 
Ye fons of Toil! who fhave but once a week, 
Stroke all your happy chins, your voices 
raife 
A grateful ehoruait in your Packwood’s praife f° 
And 
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