W

THE ANGLER.

HEN fable night retires, and cheerful morn
From tow'ring fteeps pours on th' extended
Landscape her renovating ftreams; rous'd by
The "cock's fhrill clarion," from th' adjacent
Farm the ANGLER haftens to the neighb'ring
Pool, with tap'ring rod, and lines of various
Strength, and all his numerous baits, o'ernight
Prepar'd, delufive. Beneath the covert

Of an aged elm, whofe drooping boughs sport
In the limpid wave, clofe by th' irriguous
Verge he takes his ftand, and views with eager
Hope the nodding cork or finking float. Oft now
The daring Perch affails the harmless worm,
And with repeated nibbles the fisherman
Deceives. The furdy carp, perchance the latent
Barb, may feize. Then fierce with head-ftrong rage he
Strikes across the reedy pool, lashing with

His tail the foaming element. With all
His kill the angler plys the limber rod,

Intent to gain the conteft.

At length he

Proves victorious, and to the fhelving

Brink, with joyous hand, he hauls his fcaly prize.
Then into the pool he throws again the
Lengthen'd line fresh-baited, till on the graffy
Bank the fpeck'led fry, of various kinds,
Gliften innum'rous in the morning fun.

But now the fport, tho' pleasant for awhile,
Begins to tire. And having plac'd within
His meshy net, with grafs in-laid, the finny
Heap, he o'er the verdant lawns and furrow'd

Fields, now homeward cheerful bends his lonely way..

Birmingham,

7th April, 1799.

J. M.

SAY

ELEGY.

TO S. C. S

AY, charming maid, and feal thy W's doom,
Must I no more my tender hope indulge?

To urge my trembling fuit no more prefume,
No more the anguish of my foul divulge?

Good God! within that dear, that gen'rous breaft,
The fhrine of pity, tenderness, and love,
Can fuch severity a moment reft,

And to its nobleft feelings truant prove *?

Yes-thou th' irrevocable doom hast past!
And I before thy fearful fentence bow,—
O pardon this, thy W's last request,
Forgive the tears which dare reproachful flow,
Yet tho' my fondeft with I thus refign-
And all my hopes of happiness difperfe,
No power on earth can quench a love like mine,
Becalm my foul and footh this dire reverse.
Place me in Eden's ever verdant bow'rs,
Where foft ambrofial airs their balm difpenfe,
Or fix me where eternal tempeft low'rs,
And endless winter chills the torpid sense;

Let youth's warm tide my throbbing pulse dilate,
And beauty, fmiling, court me to her arms;
Let fortune, 'ray'd in all the pomp of state,

Before me spread her twice ten thousand charms;

*The above two verses were, by mistake, infertedat the head of another poem by the fame author, in the lal VisiTOR, inftead of which the following verfe should have been inferted:

The morn, in orient colours dress'd,

Has now no cheering beam for me; No more the eve becalms my breast, Since torn from all I love-from thee.

Or waft me to thofe fam'd Arcadian fields

Where grace and lov❜liness enchanting shine; 'Twere vain-a cherub's fmile no pleasure yields, While mem'ry, faithful mem'ry, dwells on thine. O'erwhelm'd in disappointment's darkest night, Their hope forlorn, my heedlefs fteps pursue ; Terrors no more my gloomy foul affright, Nor joys my blasted pleasures can renew

To hope, to fear, alike for ever loft,

Each may with each its varied force combine, But fann'd with gales, or on the tempeft tofs'd, My heart is thine alone, for ever thine.

Some happier fwain will now thy favor gain,

And bask in smiles that once, my God! were mine And be it thus-my foul fhall ftill disdain

To nurse the wish that would contend with thine. 'Tis true, thy W- boasts no wide domain, No bleating flocks, no lowing herds have I, No teeming harveft, scatter'd o'er the plain, To plead my cause and greet ambition's eye. But I've a heart that longs to make thee blefs'd, If tender truth thy happiness enfures; Thefe arms would prefs thee to a faithful breast, Thefe eyes adore thy charms while life endures,

The fleeting day, the month, the year,

With grateful homage ftill I'd yield to thee ;
To watch thy fmiles alone, my constant care,
My highest blifs, thy faithful friend to be.

But thou haft fpurn'd thy W-'s honest love,
And all his tender offices difdain'd;
Adieu, dear maid-yet may'ft thou never prove
With woes like mine, thy dearest bosom pain'd,

I go 'mid defert wilds and torrid skies,

The peaceful haven of repose to seek :Blefs'd refuge! where these ftorms no more arife, Nor on the head misfortune's furges break,

There, while I wait the mandate of the skies,
Of ev'ry joy, of ev'ry bliss bereft,

To heav'n my warm unwearied prayer shall rife,
To heav'n, for thee, my hands I'll hourly lift.
May't thou the fond affections ftill poffefs
Of one, who shall thine own as well deserve;
Thy nuptial bed may fmiling cherubs bless;
Thofe cherubs ftill, may fmiling heav'n preferve,
While anguish wrings my woe-devoted heart,
While fearful down the vale of life I wend,
May happy, happy days their fmiles impart,
And on thy guitiefs footsteps ftill attend.

Yet if a penfive hour fometimes returns,
Sometimes to former fcenes thy thoughts revert:
Ah! think of him who in the defert mourns,
Oh give a figh to W's bleeding heart!

This balmy hope thou wilt not tear away,
Alas! to love, to woe, like mine 'tis due,
Ten thousand tears fhall ev'ry high repay,
Adieu, dear lov'ly maid, a long adieu!

W. H.

ON THE RETURN OF SPRING.

H

AIL, lovely fpring! at thy return
What pleasures fill our breafts,

The feather'd tribe no longer mourn,
But build their little nefts.

The lark, the nightingale, and thrush,
With warb'ling notes they fing,
And, with the blackbird from the bush,
Salute the cheerful spring!

Now Flora decks the meadows green,
To yonder grove let us repair,
There we'll review the blissful fcene,
And breathe the grateful spicy air,

Ditchling
Suffex.

T. SADLER

AN

INDIAN's ADDRESS TO HIS COMRADES.

N

OW the fun finks in night, and its glory's obscur'd,
The dark hour of battle draws nigh;

In yon gloomy dungeon my Kora's immur'd,

And vengeance fits thron'd in the sky!

Ye unfeeling white-men, now revel your last,
Soon, foon fhall ye all bite the dust ;

To the fowls of the air we your bodies will cast,
Your fouls to the land of the curft!

Then your axes prepare, my comrades, and hafte,
Whilft night, fcowling, holds her domain;
Revenge leads the way-let's fcour the waste,
And drink of the blood of the flain !

W. M.

STANZAS

BY A FATHER TO HIS LITTLE DAUGHTER, UPON HER PLUCKING A WHITE VIOLET.