18t0.] 
Terrestrial star! the Yelle Rose 
With Sol’s own golden colour glows. 
Then, thus, the patron of the lyre: 
© Blest Rose! thy charms rhe gods inspire ! 
And, mingled with the living bays, 
Add lustre to their shining sprays ! 
Sweet paragon of Flora’s tribe, 
Whose leaves empyreal tints imbibe 3 
Where’er my beams illume the clime, 
Still flourish thro’ the bounds of Time 3 
nd honour’d by th? immortals be, 
But chief, by Love and Poésy ! 
Pheebus, whose liquid light divine, 
Has lav’d the yellow eglantine ;* 
Bids in one splendid group combin’d, 
Thy varying offspring be entwin’d ; 
O Rose ! in all thy divers hues, 
Exhaustless subject of the Muse; 
Not less shall Painting, sister-art, 
Delight thy semblance to impart ; 
While union’s magic pow’r bestows 
New charms to grace each rival rose !” 
PsycHE. 
— 
Poe POETS GRAVE: 
Jow twilight draws her dark’ning veil, 
The owls their dweilings quit 5 
The pleasing, pensive hour, I hail, 
For contemplation fit. 
Forth from my humble cot I stray, 
For weil I love the time, 
Or through the vale to take my way, 
Or up the hill to climb. 
Through trackless plains my steps to urge, 
To penetrate the grove, 
Or by the riv’let’s rushy verge, 
In thoughtful mood io rove. 
Oft it’s slow-winding course I trace, 
Which leads where all must go, _ 
To the still church-yard, ‘hat sad place, 
Where many a friend lies low, 
There, where it laves the sacred sod 
With gently murmuring noise, 
Full oft the ‘* margent green”’ P’ve trod, 
And tasted tranquil joys. i" 
Beheld the Moon on silver car 
Slow riding thro’ the night ; 
Have seen, with thought sublime, each star 
That lent its twinkling light. 
Or with some much-lov’d friend convers’d, 
W hile swift ine hours have fled, 
Some friend who now is turn’d to dust, 
And on whose grave I tread. 
But ah! by pale Diana’s light, 
W hich now begins to beam ; 
His silent grave attracts my sight, 
Whom I did most esteem, 
Brigit Virtue reign’d within his breast, 
His heart was kind and warm ; 
And Nature too had done her best, 
In fshioning bis ‘orm. 
* Not the egianiine, commoniy so called, 
that being the woodvine; but the rosa eglan- 
seria of Linnuss 
Original Poetry. 
51 
Full oft in rural solitude, 
We've studied Wisdom’s ways $ 
Full oft the Muse together woo’d, 
In simple artless lays. 
But now those happy hours are pasty 
No more to be enjoy’d; 
The bud of genius, Death’s rough blast 
Has wither’d and destroy’d, 
Close at yon solemn yew-tree’s root, 
In peace the poet sleeps 5 
Around his grave wild roses shoot, 
And near, the willow weeps. 
No sumptuous marble decks the greeny 
His praises to rehearse 5 
But on a rude-carv’d stone is seen, 
This tributary verse : 
THE EPITAPH. 
Here, in the silence of the tomb, 
A humble bard lies low, 
His faults, his virtues, and his doom, 
The last great day will show. 
Reader, if Nature to thy breast, 
A feeling heart ne’er gave, 
ass on 5 but if with genius blest 
Weep o’er * the poet’s grave.” 
A CRs 
Crea 
FROM TASSO, 
WITH ADDITIONAL STANZAS. 
! puHov, who lov’st Pindzan heights to 
climb, 
Where, on a cypress tree, my harp is laid; 
Say, that I droop beneath the touch of Time, 
- That much J long for it’s accustom’d aid: 
I should be happy were my harp but here, 
I'd hang with rapture o’er its simple 
frame 5 
OQ! leave for me the relick of a tear, 
Or fix upon its front its owner’s fame. 
Speak to the winds, as o’er my harp they 
steal, 
To leave a kiss upon each silent string ; 
Tell (if thou canst) the weight of woe I 
feel ; 
How frowning winter follow’d smiling 
spring. 
O! tell my much-lov’d harp, with what 
delight, - 
With how much joy, I heard its simple 
tone: 
But now ’tis gone for ever from my sight, 
I soon shall die—I cannat live, alone. 
CANZONET. 
Sweet Mary, on thy breast reclin’d, 
Isigh to every passing wind 5 
And inthat sigh delight to prove ~ 
The sweets of pure, unspotted love. 
What, though no jewels deck thy hair, 
Thou’rt no less lovely, no less fair ; 
Affection reigns within thy breast, 
And tells me, Lalone am blest. 
HENR 
