ODE TO COQUETILLA.

BY MR. R. A. DAVENPORT.

CEASE, prithee cease, each vain endeavour, Believe me all thy hopes are vain;

For never, Coquetilla, never,

Can my firm heart receive thy chain.

Thy voice so soft, thy artful languish,
Thy prudish frown, thy luring smile,
Thy sighs-the counterfeits of anguish,
I know are but the tricks of guile.

In vain, my love or pride to waken,
You flirt it with a score of beaux;
Sadly indeed are you mistaken!
'Twill never ruffle my repose.

And though with twenty more coquetting
You sternly frowned on me alone,
Faith! I should ne'er waste time in fretting!
Nor e'er to winds or waters moan.

Stop thy bootless persecution!

I swear by each bright saint above Thou canst not shake my resolutionFor, one of matchless charms, I love!

Mild as the sweet May's sweetest morning The maid for whom my bosom sighs; Her mind, each gentle grace adorning, Speaks in her love-inspiring eyes:

The tints upon her fair cheek glowing Shame the frail rose's meaner hue; And the soft tones from her lips flowing Fall like the Morn's reviving dew.

Say when, in all her glories dighted,
The Moon ascends her silver car,

What gazing eye by her delighted
Can heed the twinkling of a star?

THE CLOSE OF DAY,

No breeze disturbs the summer leaves That sleep refreshed with evening dew; An amber cloud the moon receives,

And veils her crescent from the view.

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The voice of neither herd nor flock,
With tones of love, salutes my ears,
In echoes from the mountain rock,

That wears the mossy robe of years.

New hay and honeysuckles lend

Their fragrance to the breathing vale,
And nameless flowers their odours blend,
And with their sweets the smell regale.

As on I travel through the gloom,
That dims the closing eye of Day,
Glow-worms, with silvery lamps, illume
The verdant borders of my way.

The lark, sweet minstrel of the skies!
His carol ended, sinks to rest,
And by his feathery partner lies,
So happy in their humble nest.

Thus, in a green, sequestered dell,
Safe from the frowns of wealth or care,
In smiles of peace my soul would dwell
With her, my fairest of the fair!

But now I mourn her, absent far,

My blooming flower of sweet delight!
Whose presence, like the evening star,
Would cheer the lonely brow of night.

W. EVANS..

TO A FRIEND.

WRITTEN AFTER HIS DEPARTURE TO THE
WEST INDIES.

BY W. CASE, JUN.

ADIEU, my much lov'd friend! adieu for ever!.
To thy sweet converse, social mirth adieu!
O thou, whom many an envious league doth sever,
Be thine the lay to parting friendship due.
Thee my lorn fancy loves to picture, sailing
Across the vast Atlantic's foamy waste,
Each unknown coast in fond idea hailing,

And dreaming joys thou haply ne'er shalt taste.

For ah! to what blest region canst thou wander, Where scenes than ours more fair thy senses greet? Where canst thou view more healthful streams meander?

Find skies more genial, airs more balmy sweet?

What though the clime thou seek'st, with maize wide spreading,

Bananas tall, in green luxuriance smile;

What though the citron, richest odours shedding,
With grateful zest the novel taste beguile;→

There many a Briton-cross'd the hostile surges,
The soil scarce trod—hath heav'd his gasping breath;
Tornado there his blasting fury urges,

And arid Fever breathes contagious death!

But thou art gone, and vain the voice dissuading :-
Knew'st thou my wish-yet ah! it may not be-
Endearments past thy visions ofttimes aiding,

Thy truant soul would wing its thoughts to me!
Say, when the sun, meridian beams diffusing,
With vivid splendor gilds the clouds' thin folds,
Say, wilt thou think thy friend, like thee, deep musing,
Though distant far, the selfsame orb beholds?—
Say, when the breezes sleep on ocean's pillow,
And the calm waters scarcely lave the strand,
Say, wilt thou think, each gently murmuring billow,
Like thee, perchance, hath left thy natal land?

LINES,

WRITTEN ON VISITING A ROMANTIC, BUT
OBSCURE HAMLET.

BY THE SAME.

ALL hail ye scenes, that glad the wondering view,
Sublime, fantastic, lovely, ever new!

Where art to nature lends a softening power,
And quiet sojourns in her rock-roof'd bower;
Scenes, that bid Grief's dark clouds at distance' roll,
Scenes, that in golden visions wrap the soul!