Scenes, that glowing youth discovers, Brightened in their ravifh'd view.

"Death, in ftrong and fudden fury,
Me of parents, friends bereft.

In the world a homclefs ftranger
Early I alone was left.

"To the heights of fame and merit
Young ambition bade me steer;
But a fervile doom, repreffing,
Forc'd me in a loath'd career.
"Yet a while I feem'd to profper;
Toil a little wealth had gain'd.
Then I faw my tender partner,

Then in love her hand obtain'd.

"Tranfient was this morn of pleasure;
Soon a darkfome tempeft blew.-
Fire took all. My only darling
Perish'd in my blighted view.

"Long remain'd the lofs repairless;
Sadeft gloom the world array'd.

Time, at length, and hard employment Brighter fcenes again difplay'd.

"Heaven, our lot to us appointing,

Hatred for our pain affigns.

Choose we then a night of forrow,

While a day of comfort fhines?

"Thus I lov'd again, and wedded.--
Anguish feiz'd the joy I hop'd.-
She, with debts my prifon opening,
With a faithlefs friend elop'd.

"Through neglect my needy infant
From the ftings of life deceas'd.
I was, after long confinement,
From my dreadful cell releas'd.

Selected Poetry.

ODE ON THE CLOSE OF AUTUMN;

BY GEORGE DYER.

Now farewel fummer's fervid fky,

That, while the fun through Cancer rides, With chariot flow, and feverish eye,

Scorches the beech-clad foreft fides!

And farewel autumn's milder ray,

Which, the warm labours of the fickle o'er,
Could make the heart of swain industrious gay,
Viewing in barn fecure his wheaten ftore:
What time the focial hours mov'd blithe along,
Urg'd by the nut-brown ale, and jolly harveft fong.

What different founds around me rife!

Now midt a barren fcene I rove,
Where the rude haum in hillocks rife,

Where the rash sportsman frights the grove.
Ah, cruel fport! Ah, pain-awakening found!
How hoarfe your death-note to his liftening ear,
Who late, wild-warbled mufic floating round,
Bleft the mild warblers of the rising year;
Who, as each fongfter ftrain'd his little throat,
Grateful himself would try the foft refponfive note.

Yet ftill in Autumn's fading form

The tender melting charms we trace, Such as, love's season paft, ftill warm

The fober matron's modeft face:

Mild-beaming funs, oft hid by fleeting clouds,
Blue-mantled fkies, light-fring'd with golden hues,
Brooks, whofe fwoln waters mottled leaves o'erfpread,
Fields, where the plough its fteady courfe pursues,
And woods, whofe many fhining woods might move
Fancy's poetic hand to paint the orange grove.

O ftill-for fancy is a child

Still with the circling hours I play

And feast on hips and blackberries wild,

Like truant school-boy gay :

Or eager plunge in cool pellucid stream,

Heedlefs that fummer's fultry day is fled,
Or mufe, as breathes the flute, fome rural theme,
Such theme, as fancy's fong may yet beftead;
Or, ftretch'd at eafe, will teach the lift'ning groves,
In tuneful Maro's ftrain, fome rofy ruftic loves.

Now bear me to the diftant wood,

And bear me to the filent stream,
Where erft I ftray'd in ferious mood,
Loft in fome rapturous dream.
To me, O Hornsey, what retreat so fair?
What fhade to me fo confecrate as thine?
And on thy banks, poor ftreamlet, did I care

For all the fpring-haunts of the tuneful Nine?

Ah, pleasures, how ye lighten, as ye fade!

As fpreads the fun's faint orb at twilight's dubious fhade.

(By the fame.)

THE MUSICIANS, AN ODE.

TWO AMIABLE YOUNG WOMEN, PLAYING SUCCESSIVELY ON THE

HARPSICHORD.

DID Tagus flow befide my cot,

And warble foft on beds of gold,
Were I by whispering zephyr told,
That I fhould, in fome favour'd fpot,
Hear notes fo pleafing, thither would I flee,
Nor warbling Tagus hear, to liften, fair, to thee.

For me did bleft Arabia's grove
Each fenfe-fubduing fweet diftil,
And foft melodious murmurs fill,

My ravish'd ear with notes of love;

That charm of numbers fhould not hold me long;

That charm, fair, I would break, to liften to thy fong;

Thus in a fummer's gaudy day,
Oft have I heard, a fportive train,
Young linnets chirp a tender ftrain,
And I, well pleas'd, could liften to the lay;
Those pretty minstrels did more charm my ear
Than the full warblers of the vernal year.

For in each lovely fair I trace
Simplicity of virgin hue,

Freedom, and truth, and honour true,
The beauteous mother's open face,
The father's focial heart I seem to view,

And therefore am I charm'd, muficians fweet, with you.

'Tis mine to hear the tranfient strain,

And by that charm the ear is bound,
And I will treafure up the found :—
But oh how bleft the fwain,

When each fweet girl becomes the tender wife,

Who fuch musicians hear; who fuch may love through life!

P. L. Courtier has recently fung, with foul-enriching melody, the PLEASURES of SOLITUDE. In the following addrefs to his book, he happily pretends that fortitude, which ought to accompany every literary adventurer, who may be reasonably confcious of defert.

GO, cherifh'd page! and be thy aim
With foothing numbers to impart
Honour's high pulfe, love's genial flame;
And charm the bofom's painful smart.

On thee may penfive virtue dwell!
On thee may beauty fweetly fmile!
Nor to a youthful minstrel's fhell,
Gay hope refufe to lift, a while,

Yet, if the frown of cold difdain,

Or malice thou art doom'd to bear;

Learn, like thy mafter, to fuftain,

What, like him, thoμ art form'd to bear.