Ere yet her pale lips could the ftory impart,
For a moment the hat met her view ;-
Her eyes from that object convulfively start,
For oh God what cold horror then thrill'd thro' her heart,
When the name of her Richard the knew!
Where the old Abbey ftands, on the common hard by
His gibbet is now to be feen,
Not far from the road it engages the eye,
The Traveller beholds it, and thinks with a figh
Of poor Mary the Maid of the Inn.
LINES found in a BOWER facing the SOUTH.
OFT Cherub of the fouthern breeze,
When lingering thro' the ruffling trees,
With lengthened fighs it fooths mine ear;
Oh! thou whofe fond embrace to meet,
The young Spring all enamoured flies,
And robs thee of thy kiffes fweet,
And on thee pours her laughing eyes!
Thou at whose call the light Fays ftart,
That filent in their hidden bower
Lie penciling with tendereft art,
The bloffom thin and infant flower!
Soft Cherub of the fouthern breeze,
Oh! if aright I tune the reed
Which thus thine ear would hope to please,
By fimple lay, and humble meed;
And if aright, with anxious zeal,
My willing hands this bower have made, Still let this bower thine influence feel, And be its gloom thy favourite shade!
For thee of all the cherub train
Alone my votive mufe would woo Of all that 1kim along the main,
Or walk at dawn yon mountains blue;
Mirth! oh stay thee, and awhile
Let me bafk beneath thy fmile-
Deareft goddess! for my foul
Willing owns thy lov'd controul;
Ever let me bend to thee,
Ever be thy votary-
Earth and air, the fea, the fkies,
Each to man a blifs fupplies.
Countless beings in light measure
Round him dance and whisper pleasure,
Still to joy defires inviting,
Anfwering fenfes ftill delighting.
Where their gloom could fages borrow,,
Man who call the child of forrow?
For fure tho' mirth but airy phantoms bring,
Tho' pleasures in our way no roses fling;
Tho' fcorn'd by all the powers that I adore-
Still mighty love! haft thou no joys in ftore?
Thy foft delufions, and delicious fears,
Fond hopes, and keen delights, and burning tears;
Oh! tell them all, or bid these grey-beards wife
Caft but one glance on my Eliza's eyes.
Mine too be each foftened pleasure,
Thou, Thalia, canft impart ;
Laughter, happy beyond measure,
Gaiety, that mends the heart!
These are thine, and satire keen,
Wit, that jeers eccentric folly,
And tenderness, that clothes the scene,
In tranfient, pleafing melancholy-
-Or fee where fancy now in trance profound,
On fome loved fcene her pencil filent plies;
Nor hears the bufy world that murmurs round,
Or fmiles to hear, and liftens to defpife;
And starting now, with look impatient calls,
And bids her beaming car the lightnings bear,
Far, far beyond the realms where funbeam falls,
Or comets on the darkness pour their glare;
And there her myfteries to her favourites fhews,
Sketching bright vifions on the deepened gloom;
Or weaves dark dreams, while as the texture grows,
Surprise broods raptured o'er the awful loom.
And me too, if on me the deign to smile,
Let mufing science fhew her inmoft bowers,
And all her lore unfold- unheard the while
On gliding wing fhall move the filent hours.
Ah! bleft the man, for whom with patient care,
She culls unfading flowers of calm delight,
And leads him wondering o'er the earth and air,
The boundless ocean, and the realms of light-
High raised from vulgar eyes to happier fpheres,
He breathes an air more balmy and ferene:
The while, at diftance, echoed faint he hears
The murmuring waves of life's tumultuous fcene.
Nor to me a chearless beam
Would the circling fun display,
If the arts one facred gleam,
In my favoured breast furvey.
Thought, inceffant and refin'd,
Toil, that no fatigue fhould know,
On the bufy hand and mind,
Unveiling nature would beftow.
And paufing ftill, from labours bleft,
What time the lengthened fhadows fall;
How often with furrendered breast,
Thee, Mufic! would I love to call.
Thee would I call, for thou wouldst bring
Thofe gentle pleafures in thy train,
That hovering oft on downy wing,
Enamoured liften to thy strain.
Thofe forms too, would thy fteps attend,
Thofe mufing forms that round thee throng, And fhadowy fit, and liftening bend,
Oft as they catch thy penfive fong;
And languid, I by turns would hear,
Their whispers foft, thy plaintive fhell, And bid, entranc'd, in vifions dear,
The dim, receding world farewell
Yet not farewell- for who would lofe,
Oh Memory! foft, foothing power,
Thy pictures drefs'd in tendereft hues,
Thy lonely walk, thy filent hour;
Dear relicks, left by worth and love,
And honour, in my heart I bear,
Oft let me turn, and look, and prove,
That fafe remain my treasures there
In fummer heats-at midnight's hour,
When waked from reft by Cynthia's beam,
I mark how foft her glances pour
On hoary hill or filver ftream:
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