THE summer night was clear and still;
The sea was smooth, the winds were low,
And from its source the village rill
Retir'd with mournful lapse and slow.
The nightingale complain'd aloud,
The sorrowing dove prolong'd her moan,
And, smiling from the snowy cloud,
The moon with soften'd lustre shone.
The lucid stars, through azure skies,
All beauteous glow'd with silv'ry shene;
While fair Alfreda's lovely eyes,
With milder lustre grac'd the scene.
As o'er a barren rock she lean'd,
And view'd the wat'ry swell below,
She thus her pensive bosom strain'd
With themes of recollected woe:
"When doom'd by unrelenting fate, My charmer left his native land, What agonies did love create,
As blooming Damon left the strand!
As hov'ring o'er the vessel's side
I saw the foaming billows roll,
And strength'ning breezes lift the tide,
A louder tempest sway'd my soul.
"I gave to grief the tender tear,
Which melted on my Damon's heart,
And struck on my astonish'd ear,
The dreadful signal of " depart."
Encircled in his fond embrace,
I strove to lengthen out adieu!
Till from that shrine of matchless grace,
Forc'd by a rude unfeeling crew.
"And swift, unheld by love's controul,
O'er breaking waves the vessel flew,
I saw the day-star of my soul
Decline from my enquiring view.
My eyes, while fast he urg'd his flight,
Pursu'd the object of their care;
My tearful eyes pursu'd, till sight
Was lost in undistinguish'd air!
WHEN young Chloe's rising charms
Invited lovers to her arms,
She look'd a dainty thing;
We saw her beauty, own'd her wit;
And, as the simile most fit,
We call'd the period Spring.
Full bloom'd, as in the ripen'd flow'r,
We saw her still maturer pow'r,
And woman's state become her:
The prudent mother and the wife,
Dispensing round her all the life,
And all the bliss of Summer.
Advancing on in life's career,
The maids to Chloe lent an ear,
And what she knew, she taught 'em:
Her sage advice bestowing-round,
Till ev'ry prudent virgin found,
The richest fruits of Autumn.
Now Chloe's charms are faded quite,
Yet honour cannot hold it right
Of her due praise to stint her:
For she who Summer well employs,
Shall reap the Autumn's solid joys,
Nor dread the frost of Winter.
SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky;
Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to night,
Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,
Thy root is ever in its grave,
Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie;
My music shews you have your closes,
Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like season'd timber, never gives,
But when the whole world turns to coal,
E roses bow your lovely heads,
Nor boast your damask hue ;
For, see, yon spotless lily spreads
Her charms to rival you.
So in each beauteous female breast
Does envy's passion dwell;
Each lovely nymph, of charms possess'd,
Endeavours to excel.
Ah! foolish maids, behold your doom
In yonder faded flower;
For what is beauty's softest bloom?
The triumph of an hour!
By Harriet Falconer, 14 years of age.
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF A LADY.
Ir native dignity, with grace refin'd,
The gentlest manners, and the purest mind;
If piety, with high instruction grac'd,
The glorious inmate of a virtuous breast;
If chaste benevolence-affection mild;
If melting pity for Misfortune's child;
If filial fondness, if the tenderest love
And truest friendship, admiration move:
O deeply mourn Perfection's proudest boast,
The fair posessor of these virtues, lost;
Nor check the tender sigh-the holy tear,
Meek Pity's best disciple slumbers here,
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