No more o'er its brink shalt thou languishing look, I'll make thee the emblem of love-broken vows; A wreath, weeping Willow, I'll bind to my crook, Another shall circle sad Corydon's brows. Dr. Trotter. ODE TO CAMBREA, A MOUNTAIN IN CORNWALL. NEAR Yonder solitary tower, 'Lone glooming 'midst the moonlight night, I roam at midnight's spectred hour, And climb the wild majestic height: Low to the mountain let me rev'rent bow, Pale on a rock's aspiring steep, I see the white-rob'd phantom weep, The vanish'd grove provokes his deepest sigh, And altars open'd to the gazing eye. Permit me, Druid, here to stray, And ponder 'mid thy drear retreat; To wail the solitary way, Where Wisdom held her hallow'd seat: Here let me roam in spite of Folly's smile, Poor ghost; No more the Druid race No more their tapers gild the gloom. No more beneath the golden brook, Whose power at length shall crush the ball: Led by the wrinkled pow'r with gladden'd mien, Gigantic ruin treads the weeping scene. No more the bards in strains sublime, Each glorious deed, approv'd by fame; Here Wisdom's, Virtue's, awful voice, Let others, heedless of the hill, And swell with softest sighs the song; Ah! pleas'd each Druid mansion to deplore, Where Wisdom, Virtue, dwelt, but dwell no more. Peter Pindar. PARAPHRASE OF THE FORTY-SECOND PSALM. As pants the wearied hart for cooling springs, On briny tears my famish'd soul has fed, While taunting foes deride my deep despair; "Say, where is now thy great Deliverer fled? Thy mighty God-deserted wanderer, where?" Oft dwell my thoughts on those thrice happy days, Why throb my heart? Why sink my sad'ning soul? By Jordan's banks with devious steps I stray, O'er Hermon's rugged rocks, and desarts drear: Ev'n there thy hand shall guide my lonely way, There, thy remembrance shall my spirit cheer. In rapid floods the vernal torrents roll, Yet thy soft mercies, ever in my sight, My heart shall gladden through the tedious day; And 'midst the dark and gloomy shades of night, To thee I'll fondly tune the grateful lay. Rock of my hope! Great solace of my heart! Why faint, my soul? Why doubt JEHOVAH's aid? Gregory's Translation of Dr. Lowth's Lectures. THE WISH. Ir heaven would grant my humble pray'r To live from splendour, noise and care, Be this my only plan, And tho' remote from busy life, Sequester'd far from pride and strife, Where nature reigns in some lone grove, The linnet, lark, and pensive dove, Should join my votive lay; Here, in a little cot retir'd, By no vain thoughts or wishes fir'd, Such joys as mine could ne'er decrease, Here to muse the silent hour, And when in Summer's sultry heat, And daisies paint the ground. |