TO A

YOUNG LADY,

With a POEM on the FRENCH REVOLUTION.

Much on my early youth I love to dwell,
Ere yet I bade that friendly dome farewell,
Where first, beneath the echoing cloisters pale,
I heard of guilt and wonder'd at the tale!
Yet tho' the hours flew by on careless wing,
Full heavily of Sorrow would I sing.

Aye as the star of evening flung its beam
In broken radiance on the wavy stream,
My soul amid the pensive twilight gloom.

Mourn'd with the breeze, O*LEE Boo! o'er thy tomb.
Where'er I wander'd, Prry still was near,

Breath'd from the heart and glisten'd in the tear :
No knell that toll'd, but fill'd my anxious eye,
And suffering Nature wept that one should die!‡

Thus to sad sympathies I sooth'd my breast,

Calm, as the rainbow in the weeping West:
When slumb'ring FREEDOM rous'd by high DISDAIN
With giant fury burst her triple chain !

Fierce on her front the blasting Dog-star glow'd;
Her Banners, like a midnight Meteor, flow'd;

LEE Boo, the son of ABBA THULE, Prince of the Pelew Islands, came over to England with Captain Wilson, died of the small-pox, and is buried in Greenwich Church-yard. See Keate's Account.

Southey's Retrospect.

Amid the yelling of the storm-rent skies

She came, and scatter'd battles from her eyes!
Then EXULTATION wak'd the patriot fire,
And swept with wilder hand th' Alcœan lyre :
Red from the Tyrants' wound I shook the lance,
And strode in joy the reeking plains of France!

Fall'n is th' oppressor, friendless, ghastly, low, And my heart akes tho' MERCY struck the blow. With wearied thought once more I seek the shade, Where peaceful Virtue weaves the MYRTLE braid. And ô! if EYES, whose holy glances roll,

Swift messengers, and eloquent of soul;

If SMILES more winning, and a gentler MIEN,

Than the love-wilder'd Maniac's brain hath seen Shaping celestial forms in vacant air,

If these demand th' empassion'd Poet's care

If MIRTH, and soften'd SENSE, and WIT refin'd,
The blameless features of a lovely mind;

Then haply shall my trembling hand assign
No fading wreath to BEAUTY'S saintly shrine.
Nor, SARA! thou these early flowers refuse-
Ne'er lurk'd the snake beneath their simple hues :
No purple bloom the Child of Nature brings
From Flatt'ry's night-shade: as he feels, he sings.

September, 1794.

IMITATED

FROM OSSIAN,

The stream with languid murmur creeps,
In LUMIN'S flowery vale:
Beneath the dew the Lily weeps
Slow-waving to the gale.

*The flower hangs its head waving at times to the gale. Why dost thou awake me, O Gale! it seems to say, I am covered with the drops of Heaven. The time of my fading is near, the blast that shall scatter my leaves. To-morrow shall the traveller come, he that saw me in my beauty shall come. His eyes will search the field, they will not find me. So shall they search in vain for the voice of Cona, after it has failed in the field. RATHON, see Ossian's Poems, vol. 2.

- BER