TO MY RIVAL.

TELI me, poor Rival! tell me why,
The fruitless, hopeless chace pursuing,
To Lelia's presence still you fly,

By many a prayer her favour wooing?

Dost thou not mark, how deaf an ear
She turns to all thy soft advances ?
Dost thou not mark, what looks severe
On thee my Lelia often glances?

In vain her face and form you praise;
No praise of thine, believe me, charms her;
For, firm against each artful phrase,
My ever-present image arms her!

Each gem that Earth's dark caves contain
Did Fate permit thy hand to proffer,

My Lelia still would mine remain,

And proudly spurn thy dazzling offer!

No! never shalt thou triumph o'er

Her heart, for me with passion glowing!

One smile of mine she prizes more

Than boundless wealth of thy bestowing.

What madness in thy soul would dwell!
How the detested sight would wound thee!
To see with bliss her bosom swell,

As fond she clasps her arms around me ;

To see me on her breast recline,

Entranc'd in more than mortal pleasure, While from her lips she showers on mine Of kisses her ambrosial treasure.

Then soft she breathes th' impassion'd vow"Dearest! no time our bands shall sever'; "For, truly as I love thee now,

"So truly will I love thee ever.

Yes, my belov'd, thy Lelia lives

"For thee alone; nor wilt thou doubt me; "Yes, all that e'er existence gives,

"Is cold and valueless without thee!"

More close to mine her lovely form
With tender violence she presses;
And, with such smiles as Death might warm,
She lavishes her sweet caresses.

Quit then, poor Rival! quit a chace
In shame and disappointment ending;
Nor more delusive hopes embrace,
Both vanity and folly blending.

Yet, still mayst thou pursue my fair,
With amorous suit and love-lorn ditty,
Nor fear my rage; thy fruitless care
Moves not my anger, but my pity.

IGNOTO.

STANZAS.

WRITTEN DURING A STORM, A. D: 1804

BY W. PRESTON, ESQ.

WHAT Demons wing the troubled air,
And howl infuriate in the blast!
What thunders bid the world prepare
For murd'rous rage, and changes vast!
On what dire errand are ye past,

Ye fearful Ministers of Death,

Who plough the billows with portentous breath?

Oh, rage ye thus, that man may find

An image of the mortal coil,

That agitates the general mind,

That dies, with blood, full many a soil;

While vain Philosophy, and Pride,

With mad Ambition swell Confusion's tide?

Again, again, the pealing storm!
How long, ye Demons, will ye roar?
How long the cultur'd plain deform,
And strew with wrecks the cruel shore?

To stain the wintry flood, with gore,
Say, do ye call the Sons of France?
Say, do ye bid Rebellion grasp the lance!

The songs of death I hear you sing,
Denouncing woe to ravag'd earth,-
The ministers of wrath ye bring,
Ye summon giant ills, to birth,

Intestine wars, and flame and dearth;
Each mighty plague, at heav'n's commands,
That waves her iron scourge o'er guilty lands.

Again I understand that yell

Ye call the ships from Gallia's coast"Waft-hither waft the dogs of hell, "Imprison'd, for a day we boast,

"To keep the matchless naval host, "That Albion's conquering thunder bear; "To fill th' astonish'd world with awe and fear."

If led by destinies of ill,

That human prudence may not mar,
The foe th' advent'rous course fulfil;
Then comfort shall be distant far ;-
And dire must be the tug of war;

What blood shall stream! what flames shall burn!
How late-how late-shall blessed Peace return!

Fugitive Poetry.

VOL. III,