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But seldom had an aged Nun this honor,
"Tis natural to presume, conferr'd upon her.
The neat alcoves, where youthful beauty lies,
Breathing thro' coral lips unconscious sighs,
Scenting the ambient air, more harmonize,
With Ververt's taste-then, wrapp'd in deep repose,
He rests till Venus in the horizon glows.
Awake, beholds the toilet's mystic rite,

Which e'en midst convent-glooms can yield delight.
What have I said! catch not the sound ye gales !
The Muse, a female, loves not spiteful tales,
Else she could tell with what assiduous care
The blooming novice braids her glossy hair;
And oft, while gazing on her radiant eyes,
Dims the clear mirror with her fragrant sighs;
For Vestals too require the mirror's aid,
No less than she who lives mid court parade;
The simple veil demands appropriate grace,
No less than heads adorn'd with pearls and lace.
As in the world Fashion's decisive voice,
Commands our fancy, or directs our choice,
So in the purer convent's calm domain,

Taste, and the humbler graces, hold their reign.
"Tis theirs to teach the stubborn robe to bend,
Or with the harshest lawn an ease to blend,
Close o'er the breast to bid the manteau meet,
And fall redundant o'er the modest feet,
While oft the wanton Loves assist the Fair,
Darken her eye-lash, and improve her air,
The Loves, who force their way thro' massy towers,
And leap o'er lofty grates at midnight hours;
Some in the plaitings of her bandeau lie,
Or curl the ringlet o'er her downcast eye;
With infant archness some her neck reveal,
Then with decorous haste the charm conceal,

And sliding thro' the kerchief's varied fold,
Within its shade their blissful station hold.
Attir'd, she hastens to her parlour friends,
Yet ere she goes a parting glance she sends
At the dear mirror-" yet, but one look more!”
She smiling cries, then-slowly shuts the door.
The Muse hates scandal, therefore let this be
A secret, my dear friend, 'twixt you and me.
Returning to our Hero-in the breast
Of ease, of elegance, and peace carest,
So apt at conversation, song, and play,
He quite eclips'd the favourites of the day.
For him all earlier darlings were forgot;
For him her sparrows sister Clare neglected;
And one day, yielding to their little rage,
At seeing this fine stranger so respected,
Four young canaries in their lonely cage,
Tore their bright plumes, and died upon the spot;
While two great cats, long in the convent cherish'd,
Unnotic'd now, with downright envy perish'd.
Who could foresee in these delicious times
How vain the toil to cultivate his manners,

[crimes,

That those dark days would come when, stain'd with

This beauteous idol of each tender heart,

Would from his Convent's purity depart,

Forget the chaste delights that bless'd each day,
Become, of vice the unresisting prey,

And proudly swell beneath her tainted banners.
Ah! ye bright Vestals, to the future blind,
A bitter recompence your labours find.
Parrots are faithless even as mankind!
The Muse desists, for to her mental view
The dreary visions in sad prospect rise,
Tears of pure sympathy bedew her eyes,
Her tender bosom bleeds, sweet maids, for you!

TO MY RIVAL.

TELL 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;

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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.

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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?

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