STANZAS. LITTLE Gipsey declare, If he dar'd of my frowns to complain ? No, not even in thought He adores the lov'd cause of his pain. His passion's so pure, That he could not endure Fond hopes, if he thought they'd displease; To his heart so sincere, Than his own by a thousand degrees. At the foot of the hill, Where the willows distil Crystal dew-drops, he seeks the night's gloom; Ere a twelvemonth goes round, Shedding Sympathy's tears at his tomb. Little Gipsey away, Nor pity'd her true Lover's doom- And the willows wave over his tomb, ) ELEGIAC ODE. WHEN the stroke of the Woodman had ceas'd in the vale, And the sweet Philomela had finish'd her song; A sage Child of Sorrow repeated his tale, And sigh'd to the stream as it murmur'd along. " I have seen the glad prospect which led me astray, Change its lustre, and fade like the tints of the morn; I have seen the meridian splendor of day, But night has succeeded, and found me forlorn. " I have seen, as I pass'd, how the rose blushing gay, To the gale of the morning its bosom display'd; I return'd, but its beauties had faded away, And the pride of the morn ere the ev'ning was dead. " I have seen (oh how lovely!) the maid of the dale, Flush'd with health, and with beauty triumphantly tread; But, alas! neither beauty nor health could avail, "How delusive is Hope!-oh, how transient the stay "How blank is the prospect, how gloomy the day, Which is clouded with care, and o'ershadow'd with woe; How dreary, unsocial, and cheerless the way, Which the Children of Sorrow must wander below! "Oh! when shall the Pilgrim arrive at his home, mourn." Thus nightly he sang, and the swains lov'd to hear, For his accents were gentle and mild as the dew; Till they dropp'd o'er his tale of misfortune a tear, And shrunk from the world, and the picture he drew. P. H. F. THE POET'S PETITION. YE Fates! these mortal realms who sway, For ill the Poet's soul could brook But if he must to prison go, O! let a month of prison woe AMICUS. SỌNG. THINK no more, my gentle Maid! Pleading youth in bar of love Is in Cupid's court a treason, While from day to day I spy Gentle Maid! resign thy fears; KYMBER *. TO SIR ARMINE WODEHOUSE, BART. BY THE LATE REV. R. POTTER. Dii patrii, quorum semper sub Numine Troja est, YET once more, ye lov'd poplars, and once more Nor where proud Thamis rolls his royal waves First printed in the year 1759. |