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The mother seeks his grief to learn,
Then sooths him with her sweetest smiles;
Bids him no longer weep and mourn,
For stubborn hearts will yield to wiles.

His flushing cheek and wrathful look,
Assume a soft and gentle glow,
As he her ready lesson took,

To quit his darts-to hide his bow.

Now soft and tender is he seen,
And gently are his words exprest ;
With subtle art, and alter'd mien,
He robes him in a borrow'd vest.

In Friendship's guise the fair he meets,
In Friendship's voice he whispers mild,
As Friendship, she deceit admits,

And nurs'd in Friendship's name the child.

With cautious boldness, by degrees,
He frolicks, plays, and on her breast
Attempts to touch, and then to seize,
The frigid guardian of her rest.

Forbear, in agony, she cries,

That talisman secures my ease; But for its power these weeping eyes

Would mourn the loss of rest and peace.

There is a treacherous, tyrant boy,
Ah! how unlike thy simple truth;
Who robs fond virgins of their joy,
Their smiles of innocence and youth.

His fiery darts enflame the soul;

Days lose their peace, and nights their rest: Once on yon bank he fixed his goal, And aim'd his arrows at my breast.

This shield secur'd me from his

power,
This shield alone protects me still,
For oft unseen, in careless hour,
The weak are conquer'd by his skill.

Oh, pardon me, the urchin cries,

I little knew my ven'trous deed!
In these sad tears, and burning sighs,
My penitence and sorrow read.

And let me press this guardian spell,
Close, and still closer to thy breast-
He press'd, he sigh'd, his warm tears fell,
Her throbbing heart his power confess'd.

In wonder all her soul is tost,

As she the sudden change revolv'd,

A moment tells her all is lost,

She feels the magic spell dissolv'd.

Wild triumph glads his alter'd eye,
He quits the victim of his power;
Subdued, she scarcely breathes a sigh;
He flies to Venus and her bower.

With pensive thought the lonely maid
Retraces all the paths he trod;
Still lingers where she was betray'd,
Feels all his power, and owns the God.

BION. IDYLLIUM VI.

Translated.

BY THE LATE REV. W. B. STEVENS.

THE Muses bow before Love's genial sway,
Thron'd in their hearts, he reigns, he rules theirl1y ;
And the cold youth, from tender passion free,
In vain attempts their lofty harmony.

For him alone attemper'd to delight,

Who wreaths the bands that Love to Verse unie,
Gay images and radiant fancies throng

To grace the numbers of his charming song.
O truth most clear! for when my harp essays

To sound heroic notes, and God-like praise,
The harsh strain falters, and my slumbering had
Errs mid the chords;-but when at LovE's comma. d
My Lydia's form, my Lydias smile renews
The sweet effusions of my happy Muse,

Hear ye!-what vocal transport breathes around!
Hear the insatiate Echos catch the sound!

MYTHOLOGICAL DESCRIPTION OF A BOX

Appropriated to the annual reception of poetical contributions, at the Vicarage of Hayes, Middlesex, when the Rev. Anthony Hinton was Vicar,

BY T. PARK, ESQ.

"Diversa figurarum positio."

WHEN the box of Pandora came down from the Gods
To disquiet poor mortals and set them at odds,
'Twas hewn by the Fates from some health-blasting yew
Which on Acheron's bank or Avernus's grew;
By Vulcan 'twas hing'd with the diræ of Life,
By Bellona emboss'd with the symbols of strife,
While each fiend of Cocytus his malice combin'd
To make this joint present a curse to mankind!

But the box which Apollo now yearly displays,
When he visits his classical villa called HAYES,
As a nostrum for that which descended of yore,
Bright Pæon himself from a laurel-tree bore,
Of the very same genus that Daphne's own hand
Had formerly planted on Peneus' strand;
By the Muses 'twas form'd on their favourite mount,
By the Graces thrice polish'd at Dian's pure fount,
And fill'd with each flowret of Nature and Art
That blooms from the fancy, or springs from the heart:
On its sides are the scions of Genius chas'd,
Round its borders, inlaid, are the tendrils of Taste,
While Wit's lucid gems of the very first drop,
Circumscribe a young figure of Fame on the top.

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ON READING SOME MANUSCRIPT POEMS,

By a Young Lady of Edinburgh,

BY THE REV. HENRY BOYD, A. M.

THAT strain once more! it had no dying fall *
Tremendous minstrelsy! it shook my frame
As upward thro' the wide Olympian hall,
Thy genius bore me on his wings of flame.

That strain once more !-oh many a year is flown
Since Collins smote the clanging lyre so strong;
When like the shock that runs from zone to zone,
I felt the sacred violence of song!

Our distance far we mortal minstrels keep,
Who round the borders of Parnassus stray,
Alone she climbs the formidable steep,

And eyes the beam of more than solar day.
At once almost with angels there she views
Old Nature's mighty current ebb and flow,
That now the desolating conflict brews,

Now bids the vernal tints of Eden glow.

With thee aghast, I climb the frozen wave,†

Where the dim pole-star views the sailor's doom, While Zembla's tempests thro' the cordage rave, Till each man stands his own Gorgonean tomb.

Shakespeare.

+ Spirit of the Storm, an Ode.

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