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There every figure stànds confeft,
In all the sweet advantage dreft

Of Candour's radiant robe
There no mean cares admiffion find,
Love is the bufinefs of mankind,

And Honour rules the globe.

But if those gleams fallacious prove

That paint the world so fair ;
If heav'n has plac'd for gen'rous love

No soft afylum there;
If men fair faith, fair fame deride,
Bent on the crooked paths that guide

To Int'refl's sordid thrine ;
Be yours, ye gloomy fons of Woe!
That melancholy truth to know,

The dream of bliss be mine.


(From the Vales of Wever, a loco-descriptire Poem, by J. Gis

BORNE, Esq.]

Hereas the crags with facred light


Pours through the gaping rocks her beams,
And sheds a glory on the streams,
Old towers and ramparts burit around,
Inchantment walks the hoary ground:
Black shades contrast the illumin'd scene,
And horror frowns those dells between.
Pale o'er the woodlands moonthine glows,
And pale the lustrous deluge flows,
Rolls o'er the graves on Wever's brow,
While yellow vapours swim below.

Such scenes the forrowing Melna fought,
Her soul with pure affection fraught,
Pierc'd with quick step and throbbing breaft
Cona's rude vales, diftracted guest;
Bath'd with unpitied tears the earth,
And figh'd and mourn'd her hapless birth ;
Callid on Hidallan's darling name,
And wail'd her warrior's thirst of fame.

Thus while she moan'd, remorseless night
Dimm'd the last bluth of western light,


Wove a black canopy, of cloud,
And round her flung his fable fhroud :
No stars arose with changeful blaze,
To cheer her path's bewilder'd maze ;
No moon-beams glimmering through the trees
Trembled obedient to the breeze.
A while the weeping beauty stood
(Cold tremors courfing through her blood),
Then foreaming rush'd, with furious tread,
Along the mantions of the dead;
Where at this hour o'er mouldering graves
His beard of snow the thistle waves.
At length more calm, with looks refign'd,
She check'd the tumult of her mind,
Rais'd her white arms, implor'd the moon
To shed on night her placid noon,
Then sunk in agony of prayer,
Pale kneeling monument of care !


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Saw the grim night diffuse around
A blacker pall upon the ground :
“ Alas! my fruitless prayer" — the cried,
Sunk on the dew-cold moss, and high'd.
O’er her fine form disastrous Sleep
Wav'd his wand wet from Lethe's deep,
Dire dreams convuls'd her labouring mind,
And phantoms started from behind:
When, lo! through opening clouds the moon
Shed o'er the vales her lucid noon,
Silver'd the sable cheeks of night,
And horror ímild at holy light.
Infiant awaken'd by the glare
Of glory soft diffus'a through air,
She wonder'd much, with whom, and how,
Her steps e'er sought these wilds below,
What fpirit of the midnight hour
Dragg'd her from Cona's rock-roof d bower;
When all at once remembrance dread
Impetuous seiz'd her fhudd'ring head.
“ Who comes?" she shriek’d, * who haunts this vale?
“ His looks! his robes of mift ! how pale !
“ 'Tis he, 'tis he! my life! my love!
" Ye gods who hear me from above,
“ 'Tis my Hidallan ! — heavens ! he flies,
* Drinks with unfeeling ear my cries."
Thrice with impallion'd grief The prayed,
And thrice the claip'd the fleeting ihade;
But when she saw his buoyant feet
Through ether's argent realms retreat,
Saw ftars dim twinkle in his veft,
And moonthine glimmer through his breast,
Then with mad toot the Imote the ground,
Then started at the bursting found;
Wrung with wild hands her shadowy hair,
And star'd, and laugh'd with fierce despair ;
Thrill'd with delirious shouts the grove,
As frenzy fann'd the flames of love.



(From Poems by ROBERT SOUTHEY.]

The weeds of infamy, from every joy
The heart can feel excluded, I arife
Worn out and faint with upremitting woe;
And once again with wearied steps I trace
The hollow-founding thore. The swelling waves


Gleam to the morning fun, and dazzle o'er
With many a splendid hue the breezy strand.
Oh there was once a time when Elinor
Gazed on thy opening beam with joyous eye
Undimm'd by guilt and griefyhen her full soul
Felt thy mild radiance, and the rifing day
Waked but to pleasure ! on thy sea girt verge
Oft England ! have my evening steps stole on,
Oft have mine eyes surveyed the blue expanse,
And mark'd the wild wind swell the ruffled surge,
And seen the upheaved billows' bosomed rage
Rush on the rock; and then my timid soul
Shrunk at the perils of the boundless deep,
And heaved a ligh for suffering marincts.
Ah! little deeming I myself was doom'd
To tempt the perils of the boundless deep,
An Outcast- unbeloved and unbewaild.

Why stern Řemembrance ! must thine iron hand

my soul ? why calls thy cruel power
The fields of Esgland to my exil'd eyes,
The joys which once were mine? even now I sec

The lowly lovely dwelling! even now
Behold the woodbine clasping its white walls
And hear the fearless red-breasts chirp around
To ask their morning meal :- for I was wont
With friendly hand to give their morning meat,
Was wont to love their song, when lingering morn
Streak d o'er the chilly landscape the dim light,
And thro' the open'd lattice hung my head
To view the snow-drop's bud : and thence at eve
When mildly fading lunk the summer sun,
Oft have I loved to mark the rook's flow course
And bear his hollow croak, what time he fought
The church-yard elm, whose wide-embowering boughs
Full foliaged, half conceal'd the house of God.
There, my dead father! often have I heard
Thy hallowed voice explain the wonderous works
Of Heaven to finful man. Ah ! little deem'd
Thy virtuous bofom, that thy shameless child
So soon should spurn the lesson! sink the slave
Of Vice and Infamy | the hireling prey
Of brutal appetite! at length worn out
With fanine, and the avenging scourge of guilt,
Should dare dishonesty - yet dread to die !

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Welcome ye savage lands, ye barbarous climes,
Where angry England fends her outcast fons -
I hail your joyless thores ! my weary bark
Long tempeft-toft on Life's inclement sea,

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