LOUISA.

BY ROBERT ANDERSON.

WHERE yon tall pine nods o'er the deep,

And murm'ring chides each passing gale,
Louisa oft would sit and weep,
And tell, with broken sighs, her tale.

Seduc'd, a prey to Want and Grief,
The world no pleasures could impart;
Friendship could lend her no relief,
Nor Pity heal a breaking heart.

With woe-worn looks of wild despair,
She'd oft repeat her Henry's name;
Then gaze on one, her only care,
The living record of her shame;

And in each feature fondly trace
The look that did her heart betray,
Then bending o'er his infant face,
Would weep the ling'ring hours away.

"Ah, pretty babe! she oft would cry,
Thy smile but deeper wounds my breasts

Ah! where from sorrow can I fly?

The grave's my only seat of rest.

Ah, pretty babe! no father hears

Thy tongue its lisping tales repeat;

No lover dries thy mother's tears,

Nor marks her tender bosom beat.

Be sorrow poor Louisa's lot;

Yet still her pray'r shall be to Heav'n, That, tho' by him she lov'd, forgot, His wrongs to her may be forgiv'n."

A stranger now to soft repose,

No more the mourner hop'd for peace; And Heav'n, in pity to her woes,

Soon bade Louisa's sorrows cease.

Where yon tall spire o'ertops the height, And many a place of rest is seen; There wanders one from morn to nightGuilt marks his look and alter'd mien.

He heeds no stranger's proffer'd aid,
Nor chilling rain, nor piercing blast;

But near the aged yew-tree's shade,
For ever thinks of what is past.

On one he looks, to one he speaks,
Who oft he prays kind Heav'n to save;
And with his babe, the maniac seeks
Wild flow'rs to deck Louisa's grave.

SONNETS,

IMITATED FROM THE ITALIAN.

SONNET FROM BETTINELLI.

VENICE.

Venice, situated on the Adriatic Gulph, was founded by Refugees, in the fourth Century, when Italy was overrun by Attila, King of the Huns.

WITH talons terrible, for slaughter spread,
On wings that made a tempest of their way,
Down darting from the Alps, by vengeance led,
The' Hungarian Falcon pounced upon his prey:

From wrath and rapine, trembling with dismay,
The Italian Doves before the Spoiler sped,
And wide o'er vales and mountains driven astray,
Far from their ravaged homes for ever fled.

Then found the wiser Halcyon's lovely brood,
(Scared from their country ruin'd and opprest,)
A safe asylum on the rolling flood:
By Worth upheld, by Liberty carest,
'Midst thrones in ashes, cities sunk in blood,
Ages on ages past-behold the beauteous nest!

SHEFFIELD, DECEMBER 12, 1804.

ALCEUS.

SONNET,

FROM GAETANA PASSERINI.

GENOA.

Liberty speaks as she walks among the Ruins of Genoa, after it had been bombarded, but not subjugated, by Louis XIV. in

1684.

"My native Genoa!-if with tearless eye,
Prone in the dust thy beauteous form I see,
Think not thy Daughter's heart is dead to thee;
-'Twere treason, O, my Mother! here to sigh:

" For here, triumphant tho' in ashes, lie
The trophies of thy truth and constancy;
Here, at each glance, each footstep, I descry
The proud memorials of thy love to me.

" Conquest to noble Suffering lost the day,
And glorious was thy vengeance on the Foe;
-He saw thee foundering-yet not cast away !"
Thus Liberty, exulting even in woe,

Kiss'd the dear relics, mouldering as they lay,
And cried-" In RUINS art THOU? - YES!-In

BONDAGE? NO!"

ALCEUS.

SONNET,

FROM BENEDETTO DALL' UVA.

CYPRUS.

The original of the following Sonnet was written in 1571, during the siege of Famagusta, in the Island of Cyprus, by the Turks; and was truly prophetic of its fall. The garrison surrendered to save the town from the fate of Nikosia, where Mustapha, in the preceding year, had massacred 14,000 inhabitants; but a few days after the capitulation the brave Governor was flayed alive by the treacherous Turks; and Cyprus (the profligacy of whose inhabitants was proverbial) remained the victim of their cruelty.

THUS saith the Lord-" In whom shall Cyprus trust,
With all her crimes, her luxury and pride ?
In her lascivious loves will she confide,
Her harlot Daughters, and her Queen of Lust?

My day is come-when o'er her neck in dust,
Slaughter and Slavery shall triumphant ride,
Death and Captivity the spoil divide,
And Cyprus perish!-I the Lord am just!

Then he that bought, and he that sold in thee,
Thy princely Merchants, shall their loss deplore,
Brothers in ruin, as in guilt before!
And thou, who mad'st thy rampart of the sea,
By foes less humbled than cast down by me,
Thou, Famagusta!-fall, and rise no more."

ALCEUS.