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"Kirkonnel's vale! record the tale,
Adieu the banks o' Shannon!
In Kirtle's bed, wi' blood dy'd red,
I'll clasp the FLOWER O' ANNAN !"

SONG.

NOV. 22, 1743.

BY THE LATE OSMOND BEAUVOIR, LL.D.

WHO DIED JULY 1, 1789 *.

WHEN by Stour's gentle current I breath'd the soft

flute

To Chloe's sweet accents, Attention sat mute;
How charming its tone, as I swell'd the soft strain
To her voice, or return'd it in echoes again!
Little Cupid beat time, and the Graces around
Taught with even divisions to vary the sound.

From my Chloe remov'd when I bid it complain,
And warble sweet numbers to soothe love-sick pain,
How unmeaning its tone, as the rising notes grow!
And the soft-falling measures insipidly flow!

I will play then no more; for 'tis her voice alone,
Fills with raptures my soul, and enlivens the tone!

* See Gent. Mag. Vol. LIX, p. 672, 761.

TO

A LADY

ON HER BIRTH DAY.

BY THE REV. W. BELOE.

YOUTH gives the hope of many a lovely spring,
Of cheerful suns, of skies without a cloud :-

What to the ills of life can solace bring

O'er the torn heart when cares unnumber'd croud?

Elate with joy and smiles we glide along

1

O'er many a fragrant, many a flowery plain;
Nor heed the Moralist's cold warning song,
Which talks of sorrow, suffering, and pain.

But when the summer of our years is gone,
When ardour chills, and vigour fades away;
Oft must we wander comfortless alone,

And in NOVEMBER-look in vain for MAY.
The nightingale, with breast against a thorn,
Expiring sings her last melodious strains;
The Muse thus hails MATILDA's natal morn,

Proud of her friendship long as life remains.

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May that kind power who thus auspicious gave
A mind so gentle to a form so fair;
From every grief and care my favorite save,
From every breath of Fortune's ruder air.

While some dear youth shall share MATILDA's heart,
Her cares partake, her tenderness repay;

The Bard shall oft invoke the Muse's art,
To give these hours the bloom of Love and May.

STANZAS.

O! lay me where my child is laid,
And bind his turf upon my breast;
Here, let me join his parted shade,
And gently sink with him to rest!

When

peace and joy no more remain, And gathering glooms the scene o'ercast; When hope is heard, alas! in vain;

The bitterness of death is past!

O! lay me where my child is laid,
And bind his turf upon my breast;
Here, let me join his parted shade,
And gently sink with him to rest!

P. L. COURTIER.

EXILE.

BY MISS BANNERMAN.

YE hills of my country, soft fading in blue;
The seats of my childhood, for ever adieu!
Yet not for a brighter, your skies I resign,
When my wandering footsteps revisit the Rhine:
But sacred to me is the roar of the wave,

That mingles its tide with the blood of the brave;
Where the blasts of the trumpets for battle combine,
And the heart was laid low that gave rapture to mine.

Ye scenes of remembrance that sorrow beguil❜d,
Your uplands I leave for the desolate wild;
For nature is nought to the eye of despair
But the image of hopes that have vanish'd in air:
Again ye fair blossoms of flower and of tree,

Ye shall bloom to the morn, tho' ye bloom not for me;
Again your lone wood-paths that wind by the stream,
Be the haunt of the lover-to hope-and to dream.

But never to me shall the summer renew
The bowers where the days of my happiness flew ;
Where my soul found her partner, and thought to bestow
The colours of heaven on the dwellings of woe!
Too faithful recorders of times that are past,
The Eden of Love that was ever to last!
Once more may soft accents your wild echoes fill,
And the young and the happy be worshippers still.
To me ye are lost!--but your summits of green
Shall charm thro the distance of many a scene,
In woe, and in wandering, and deserts, return
Like the soul of the dead to the perishing urn!
Ye hills of my country! farewell evermore

As I cleave the dark waves of your rock-rugged shore,
And ask of the hovering gale if it come

From the oak-towering woods on the mountains of home.

EPIGRAM.

FROM THE GREEK.

ON marble tombs let no rich essence flow,
No chaplet bloom, no lamp suspended glow;
Vain cost! While yet I live, these honours pay:
Wine can but moisten ashes into clay.

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