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THE STORM.

FROM METASTASIO.-BY A LADY.

Ler no vain fear my Daphne move,
I turn not back to speak of love ;
Enough, alas ! enough for me,
To know the theme displeases thee.
Observe those threatenings in the sky,
They bode a storm approaching nigh;
Wouldst thou thy flock were safely penn'd
I only came my aid to lend.
What, wilt thou not the danger fear,
When Heaven obscured proclaims it near ?
Mark how the wind in whirls upheaves
Those clouds of dust and fallen leaves.
The woods' hoarse sound, the wild affright
Of birds that skim in dizzy flight;
The heavy drops that singly fall,
Wet on the face presages all :
But what avails it more to say,
Hark! thunder rolls-see lightnings play-
What canst thou now?_0, Daphne, come,
Hark!-whither flyest thou, or to whom?
This is no time for flocks to care,
Haste! to yon cave with me repair.

Why this panting, why this fear,
Beauteous idol of my

soul!
Trust me, thou’rt in safety here,

Dreadless hear the thunders roll.
Mid this tumult in the sky,

Here l'll watch nor speak of love ;
When the clouds to distance fly,

Thankless Daphne, l'll remove.
O let my love securely rest
Within this cavern's rocky breast;
Here never reach'd the forked glare,
No rending peals its concave tear :
The laurels hallowed shade around
To angry heaven prescribes a bound;
Then freely breathe, my lovely maid -
Still, little trembler, still afraid !

Nay, cling thee to my side more nigh,
Closer, my love, for I may fly.
Haste, bind me sure, thy hands entwine,
And in their clasp knit this of mine ;
Now, trust me, locked in this dear fence,
Not Nature's wreck should tear me hence.

Was ever moment half so sweet!
O could I think my joys complete,
Were these endearments all sincere,
Fruits of thy love and not of fear ;
Leave me this hope, O Daphne, leave,
"Twere cruel now to undeceive!

But who can tell, perhaps ere now
Thy heart hath softened at my vow;
While bashfulness has bid thee feign
The rigours of assumed disdain ;
And all the fear thou seem'st to prove
Is but the kind pretext of love.

Ah guess I right, dear Daphne, say !
Thou wilt not speak, thou turn'st away;
I see, I see thy blushes rise,
I read that smile, those downcast eyes.
Breathe not a word, enchanting maid,
Enough have smiles and blushes said."

The storm may cease its discord loud,
The sun returns without a cloud,

But never to thy lover's eye
Shall summer day seem half so dear
As, mid this dim cavern's twilight drear,

With thee to live, with thee to die !

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Hail, vernal joy and vernal cheer,
Renew'd with each renewing year,
The bloom of nature's boyhood gay,
That hastes to manhood and decay.

In pious nature's golden prime,

When truth was law and justice sway,
Spring only knew the happy clime,
And breathed one universal May.

She ceaseless o'er the teeming ground
Diffused her quick’ning gales around;
And fields perpetual harvest bare,

That knew no seed nor tiller's care.
And thus, throughout the happy isles,

Where joy and youth for ever stray,
Serene the fabled region smiles,

Temper'd with one immortal May.
And thus by Letbe's sullen strand,
That laves Oblivion's silent land,
Soft airs with feeble murmur move,
And thrill the drear funereal grove.

And thus, perchance, when final fire

Has purged this ball at heaven's command,
Such gales shall new-born life inspire,

And fan the blest regenerate land.
Hail, month of pleasure and of prime,
That gladst short while our mortal clime;
Relique of nature's sinless bloom,
Foretaste of fairer springs to come!

THE POET RELEASED FROM THE LAW.

BY THE REV. JOHN MARRIOT.

Believed to be written on the occasion of Mr Walter Scott's retiring from

the Bar.

The captive bird from irksome durance freed,
Its heart quick-throbbing as in mirthful mood,
Cutting the liquid air with joyous speed,
Regains the covert of its native wood;

There rests from toil its. long-unpractised wing,
And, perch'd upon the hazel's topmost spray,
Makes the wild woodland's deep recesses ring,

Chaunting sweet liberty's delightful lay,
Nor wearies of its song the livelong summer's day,

So lightly pricketh on his way yon wight,
Who, long y-pent in dungeon dark and drear,
Full many a scroll did wearily indite,
Blotting the parchment oft with bootless tear.
How could he but by stealth (Oh! stealth how sweet!)
Hold raptured converse with the sisters nine,
Whose colloquy doth fill the breast with he at,

Venus, how far more elevate than thine ;
How far more heavenly pure, ethereal, and divine !

Him now they welcome to their green retreats,
Releas'd from labour's dolorous abode,
No more to stray from those delightful seats,
No more to plod in Mammon's toilsomé road :
How sweetly will he pour the flowing rhyme,
Resistless master of the smile and tear!
How sweetly tell the tale of olden time!

Oh may it be my lot to wander near,
Some strains of his enchanting minstrelsy to hear !

March 1, 1806.

ODE FOR THE NEW YEAR, 1809.

BY J. H. PYE, ESQ.

Performed on her Majesty's Birth-day.*

Full-orb’d in equinoctial skies,
When the pale moon malignant rides,
And bids the howling tempest rise,
And swells the ocean's briny tides,
Dreadful against the sounding shore
The winds and waves tumultuous roar,
The torrent-braving mound in vain
The stormy inroad would restrain ;
The surges with resistless sway
Force o'er the labour'd mole their

way,

See Chronicle, p. 34.

Scorn

every weak resource of human toil, O’erwhelm the peopled town, and waste the cultured soil. But when, by native fences barr'd From billowy rage, the happier land, And rocky cliffs for ever stand To the wide-water'd coast a guard, Such as on Vecta's southern steep, Look down defiance on the raging deep, Such as on Dover's breezy down, On Gallia's hostile borders frown, Though billows urging billows roar, And idly beat against the shore, While from the heights sublime the swain Mocks the vain efforts of the foaming main, Till Nature bids the deluged surge subside, Hush'd is the tempest's voice, and refluent rolls the tide.

So o'er Europa's ravished plain,

We saw the torrent wild of war,
Resistless spread its iron reign,

And scatter ruin wide and far ;
The embattled wall, the warlike band,
Vainly the Tyrant's course withstand;
Before the impious sons of Gaul
The legions fly, the bulwarks fall;
Yet Britain's floating castles sweep
Invasion from her subject deep,
Yet by her rocks secure from harm,
Securer by her patriot arm,
Iberia turns the battle's tide,
Resists the injurious tyrant's pride,
While, freely floating in the ambient sky,
Sacred to freedom's cause, their mingled ensigns Ay.

ODE FOR HIS MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY..*

BY J. H. PYE, ESQ.

While Europe with dejected eye

Beholds around her rural reign,

* See Chronicle, p. 157.

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