Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne

Front matter

POEMS.

POEMS,

BY

Stanzas, addressed to the Right Honourable Lady Viscountess Kirkwall

STANZAS,

ADDRESSED

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

LADY VISCOUNTESS KIRKWALL.

What tho' with feeble hand I strike the lyre, I will not sigh to gain the poet's bays; Or soar with Genius on the wing of fire, If gentle bosoms prize my artless lays.

For still, inspir'd by soft affection's glow, Or true to melting gratitude sincere, "Warm from the heart," my native measures flow, Unknown to fame, yet still to friendship dear.

Fair patroness of my untutor'd strain, Oh! if the numbers please thy feeling breast, These wild effusions are not pour'd in vain, My song is honor'd, and my muse is blest.

When early led by nature's charms divine, My youthful vows to Poesy I paid; And bending low at fancy's rural shrine, Of opening buds a fragrant offering made;

Thy hand with laurel crown'd my infant head, Thy cheering kindness fann'd my rising flame, And oh! whate'er the future path I tread, My grateful heart shall ever love thy name.

May pleasure wing thy lightly fleeting hours, And health attend thee on thy smiling way! May hope and joy unite, congenial pow'rs, To gild thy prospect with propitious ray!

The muse for thee a votive wreath shall twine, Sweeter than vernal roses bath'd in dews; For there the flowers of gratitude combine, Of simple beauty, but of lasting hues.

F. D. B. aged 13.

Gwrych, 1st Oct. 1807.

On my Mother's Birth-Day

POEMS.

ON MY MOTHER's BIRTH-DAY.

Clad in all their brightest green, This day the verdant fields are seen; The tuneful birds begin their lay, To celebrate thy natal day. The breeze is still, the sea is calm, And the whole scene combines to charm; The flowers revive, this charming May, Because it is thy natal day. The sky is blue, the day serene, And only pleasure now is seen; The rose, the pink, the tulip gay, Combine to bless thy natal day. F. D. B. aged 8.

A Prayer

A PRAYER.

Oh! God, my father and my friend, Ever thy blessings to me send; Let me have virtue for my guide, And wisdom always at my side; Thus cheerfully thro' life I'll go, Nor ever feel the sting of woe; Contented with the humblest lot, Happy, tho' in the meanest cot. F. D. B. aged 9.

On a Rose

ON A ROSE.

How short, sweet flower, have all thy beauties been, An hour they bloom'd, and now no more are seen: So human grandeur fades, so dies away; Beauty and wealth remain but for a day. But virtue lives for ever in the mind, In her alone true happiness we find: The perfume stays, altho' the rose be dead; So virtue lives, when every grace is fled.

On Health

ON HEALTH.

Oh! tell me, Cambrians, tell me true, Does fair Hygeïa 'bide with you? "Yes, she with us for ever dwells, In groves, in shady woods, or dells. Oh! stranger, turn and stay—for here She deigns to give her influence dear. In yonder vale her temple stands; Her brows entwin'd with roseate bands: In Cambria's land she ever dwells, In groves, in shady woods, or dells.”

Written in North Wales

WRITTEN IN NORTH WALES.

Oh! happy regions of delight and joy, And much-loved scenes of bliss without alloy; Hail! to your mountains, groves, and woodlands dear, Hail! to your flowery lawns, and streamlets clear; Hail! to your lowly cots, and stately parks, And hail! your meadows green, and soaring larks. Observe yon verdant fields, and shady bowers, Wherein I've passed so many happy hours;

See, too, yon rugged hill, upon whose brow Majestic trees and woods aspiring grow. There to the right, the vale of Clwyd ends; Here to the left, huge Penman-mawr extends: Look to the south, the Cambrian mountains o'er; Hark! to the north, the ocean's awful roar. Remark those lowing herds and sportive sheep, And watchful shepherds too, their flocks who keep. Behold yon ships, now on the glassy main, Which spread the sails, their destin'd port to gain. These lovely prospects, how they cheer my soul, With what delight and joy I view the whole! Accept Great God, thanks for these blessings giv'n, And may my gratitude ascend to heav'n.

Written on the Sea-Shore

WRITTEN ON THE SEA-SHORE.

How awful how sublime this view, Each day presenting something new. Hark! now the seas majestic roar, And now the birds their warblings pour; Now yonder lark's sweet notes resound, And now an awful stillness reigns around.

F. D. B. aged 10

Morning

MORNING.

Now rosy morning clad in light, Dispels the darkling clouds of night, The sun in gold and purple drest, Illumines all adown the east; The sky-lark flies on soaring wings, And as he mounts to heav'n, thus sings; "Arise, ye slothful mortals, rise! See me ascending to the skies: Ye never taste the joys of dawn, Ye never roam the dewy lawn, Ye see not Phœbus rising now, Tinging with gold the mountain's brow; Ye ne'er remark the smiling land, Nor see the early flowers expand. Then rise ye slothful mortals, rise, See, I am mounting to the skies."

On the Death of my Dear Sister Eliza

ON

THE DEATH OF MY DEAR SISTER ELIZA.

INSCRIBED TO MY MOTHER.

If spotless innocence, and truth refin'd, With every virtue of the feeling mind; If these can raise to heaven's eternal sphere, Be comforted—Eliza's surely there. Oh, hark! I hear the immortal spirit sing: "I rise above on light ethereal wing; "Then weep no more; ah! cease those flowing tears, "No more Eliza death or sickness fears; "Earth and its fading pleasures far behind, “In heaven a happy, happy seat I find.

"Mourn not for me—'tis you I mourn for now; "I soar on high, while you remain below. "In heaven we all at length shall meet again, "Where all is happiness, all free from pain. "Then weep no more; ah! cease those flowing tears; "No more my spirit death or sickness fears."

Pity, An Allegory, Versified

PITY;

AN ALLEGORY, VERSIFIED.

In that blest age when never care annoy'd, Nor mortals' peace by discord was destroy'd, A happy pair descended from above, And gods and mortals nam'd them Joy and Love. Together had they seen each opening day, Together shar'd each sportive infant play; In riper years with glowing warmth they lov'd; Jove saw their passion and his nod approv'd. Long happy did they live, when cruel fate From bliss to misery chang'd their envied state. Mankind grew wicked and the gods severe, And Jove's dread anger shook the trembling sphere. To Joy he sent his high behest to fly On silken pinions to her native sky.

Reluctant she obeys, but Love remains, By Hope his nurse, led to Arcadia's plains: When from his starry throne, the mighty Jove In thunder spoke: "Let Sorrow wed to Love!" The awful stern command Love trembling hears; Sorrow was haggard, pale, and worn with tears, Her hollow eyes and pallid cheeks confest, That hapless misery "knows not where to rest." Forc'd to submit, Love's efforts were in vain; The thunderer's word must ever firm remain. No nymphs and swains to grace the nuptial day Approach, no smiling Cupids round them play; No festal dance was there, no husband's pride, For Love in sadness met his joyless bride. One child, one tender girl, to Love she bore, Who all her father's pensive beauty wore; So soft her aspect, the Arcadian swains Had nam'd her Pity—and her name remains. In early youth for others' woe she felt; Adversity had taught her how to melt. Love's myrtle, Sorrow's cypress she combin'd, And form'd a wreath which round her forehead twin'd. She oft sat musing in Arcadia's shades, And play'd her lute to charm the native maids. A ring-dove flew for safety to her breast; A robin in her cottage built its nest.

Her mother's steps she follows close; to bind Those wounds her mother made: divinely kind, Into each troubled heart she pours her balm, And brings the mind a transitory calm. But both are mortal; and when fades the earth, The nymph shall die, with her who gave her birth; Then, to elysium Love shall wing his flight, And he and Joy for ever re-unite. F. D. B. aged 11.

On the 16th December, being as fine as a May-Day

ON THE 16th DECEMBER, BEING AS FINE AS MAY-DAY.

Unlike December's frown this gladsome day Inspires my bosom, and invites my lay. The sun meridian darting from on high, Lights the gay scene, and brightens all the sky; Soft rolls the glassy main; the lightsome breeze Brings to my heart serenity and ease. Here calmness reigns; nought but the lowing herds, The waters falling, and the twittering birds, Invade the ear; here, in this tranquil scene, Far from the notice and the noise of men, Here, could I peaceful live, nor breathe a sigh For gayer views, and happy could I die.

To Fancy

TO FANCY.

Oh! thou visionary Queen, I love thy wild and fairy scene, Bid for me thy landscape glow; To thee my first effusions flow. I court the dreams that banish care, And hail thy palace of the air. Oh! bless thy youthful poet's hours, And let me cull thy sweetest flowers. Ever can thy magic please, And give to care a transient ease. View the poor man toiling hard, Of the joys of life debarr'd, Thy power his lovely dream will bless, In thy brightest rainbow dress; With flattering pleasures round him smile, In soft enchantment for a while. Thy dear illusions melt away; Ye heavenly visions, why decay! Oh! thou visionary maid, Form'd to brighten life's dark shade, Let me soar with thee on high, To realms of immortality!

Hope, thy sister, airy queen, Forms with thee her lovely scene. "Oh! thou visionary maid," Lend my soul thy magic aid, To cheer with rainbows every shade.

The Spartan Mother and her Son

THE SPARTAN MOTHER AND HER SON.

MOTHER.

My son, let virtue animate thy breast; Fly to the battle—spurn inglorious rest! Take up the spear and lance—with ardour go, March proudly forward to repel the foe! Let all the spirit of thy noble sire, With rising energy thy soul inspire! Thy bleeding country calls thee to the fight, And duty prompts thee to defend the right. Fly swiftly, Isadas, for glory says, "Why dost thou waste in peace thy slothful days?"

SON.

I go my mother, for the deathless crown Which fires the youthful hero to renown! And if thy soldier shall return to thee, And bring the laurel-wreath of victory,

Ah! let the tribute of thy praise impart, The dearest pleasure of my glowing heart. And should I fall—oh! be my glorious grave Crown'd with the patriot-honours of the brave. Think that I died in virtue's sacred cause; Think that I died to win her bright applause.

MOTHER.

My noble Isadas, to me what pride, Wert thou to die—as thy brave father died! Go, young enthusiast, to the battle go, Repel with native zeal the daring foe. Oh! that I were a bird, with thee I'd fly, And search the ranks among with piercing eye, For thee my son: thy actions brave I'd mark, And grave them in my breast.——But hark! oh, hark! The martial trumpet sounds to war's alarms; Farewel! my hero, haste thee from my arms.

SON.

Adieu! my mother, if with glory crown'd Home I return not, scarr'd with many a wound, I'll bravely fall in battle's rushing tide; Conquer or die—"as my brave father died!"

The Reign of December

THE REIGN OF DECEMBER.

In winter awful, lovely in the spring, Romantic Cambria hail! to thee I sing. No longer now I view thy verdant trees, Thy joyous harvest waving to the breeze; Thy mountain streams, thy vallies filled with corn, Thy larks which fly to greet the roseate morn; Thy summer sun cheering all nature round, Thy meads with Flora's early primrose crown'd; The stores Pomona's liberal hand bestows, And from her lap in rich profusion throws: Of these no more I sing; those cheerful days Are fled, and winter claims my pensive lays. Yet even in winter charms may oft be view'd, If by the philosophic mind pursu'd: Yea, even in chilling frost, and blustering wind, The grandeur of the Almighty Power we find. Do not the winds aloud his praise declare? Look at the snowy hills—we view him there! Whether by cold we're nipp'd, or heat oppress'd, In either is the Great Supreme confess'd. But let me now assume the festive song, And to the lyre let sportive notes belong; For all th' endearments of the social powers, Shall bless December's consecrated hours.

Now tho' joyful summer's fled, Why regret her garlands dead! For in the winter we can see The beauties of variety. And if 'twere summer all the year, Variety would ne'er appear; But in the seasons moving round, If sought for, she is always found; Then tho' summer's reign is fled, Mourn not if the flowers be dead; Tasteless would she ever be, Wanting sweet variety. Hail! then, December's pleasing reign, In the wild enraptur'd strain; And let the winter sacred be To mirth and hospitality.

To Hope

TO HOPE.

Fair enchantress gaily kind, Sweet the dream inspir'd by thee; Ever bless thy poet's mind With thy heavenly energy! Thine, oh! Hope, the magic art, To charm the sorrows of the heart; To chase the fond, the plaintive sigh, With visions of felicity!

Ah! when real joys are o'er, And love and peace delight no more, Then thy melting syren-voice Bids the pensive mind rejoice. Ah! thy dreams are too beguiling; Ah! thy prospect is too smiling. Welcome still thy dear illusions; Ever sweet thy wild effusions; "Fair enchantress, gaily kind, Ever bless thy poet's mind!" Thine th' inspiring song of peace, Soon the plaint of woe shall cease; Soon again a brighter guest Calm the mourning soul to rest. Roses in thy path shall bloom; Think, oh! think of joys to come! Come Hope, and all my steps attend, Oh! ever be my bosom-friend; To me thy fairest dreams impart, And whisper comfort to my heart. Oh! shed thy sweet enchanting ray, To bless my wild romantic way. In thy magic scene we view Gay delusions, seeming true. "Sweet musician, gaily kind, Ever bless thy poet's mind!”

To Friendship

TO FRIENDSHIP.

Oh! Friendship, sweetest, exquisite delight, For fine according spirits form'd alone! 'Tis thine our feeling bosoms to unite, And youthful hearts thy melting ardours own.

To give the mind its animated glow, Kindle the languid virtues to a flame, To bid the genial tear of pity flow, To raise the "blushes of ingenuous shame,"

These arts, oh! child of sympathy, are thine; And I will bless thy consecrated power; Will pour my early offering at thy shrine, And oft invoke thee in the pensive hour.

Ah! when our brightest prospects fade away, And Hope shall cease her glowing hues to blend: Then, when the bright illusive scenes decay, 'Tis then we prove the blessings of a friend.

Diffuse thy influence o'er my youthful mind, The artless song I dedicate to thee; What pleasing sorrows oft in thee we find, Oh! child of tender sensibility.

With thee in pensive pleasure I would melt; To me thy raptures, thy endearments give: Oh! ye, who these according joys have felt, Say, with a generous friend, how sweet to grieve.

Oh! yes, we love our sorrows to impart, And meet our comfort from a kindred heart; The elevated soul, by thee refin'd, Once to thy dear enchanting sway resign'd, Shall ever pour the genuine vow to thee, Oh! child of tender sensibility.

The Return of the Mariners

THE

RETURN OF THE MARINERS.

When the blythe mariners with glowing hearts, Guide the proud vessel to their native shore, Then Hope the animating lay imparts, And whispers of the rapture yet in store. Their spreading sails the lingering breezes gain, The airy streamers waving o'er the main; That main, which causes many a heart to mourn, Now softly rolls to favour their return.

Now, with the balmy summer gale they glide; Ah! soon the seaman hopes to meet his bride. Now, to the coast enraptur'd they advance, While o'er the wave the setting sun-beams dance. Now shouts of joy, impetuous joy, arise, The cliffs of Albion meet their sparkling eyes; With ardent cheers they hail the native shore, "Our toil, our care, our dangers, are no more." No more from love the mariners will roam, But dwell with peace and festive mirth at home. And now they spring exulting from the wave, To meet the sacred honours of the brave; Their friends, their loves, they welcome on the strand, And acclamations greet them as they land. Ah! then the tears of manly transport flow, The tears that bid the generous bosom glow. He who could stand by battle compass'd round, Stand unconcern'd, nor heed the deathful wound; He, who could boldly face the cannon's roar, Now melts in tears, to see his native shore. Then let my country's lasting honours crown The brave defenders of her bright renown; With rapture hail the heroes of the wave, Or strew her weeping laurels on their grave.

Address to the Deity

ADDRESS TO THE DEITY.

The infant muse, Jehovah! would aspire To swell the adoration of the lyre: Source of all good, oh! teach my voice to sing, Thee, from whom nature's genuine beauties spring; Thee, God of truth, omnipotent and wise, Who saidst to Chaos, "let the earth arise." Oh! author of the rich luxuriant year, Love, truth, and mercy, in thy works appear: Within their orbs the planets dost thou keep, And even hast limited the mighty deep. Oh! could I number thy inspiring ways, And wake the voice of animated praise! Ah, no! the theme shall swell a cherub's note; To thee celestial hymns of rapture float. 'Tis not for me, in lowly strains to sing Thee, God of mercy,—heav'n's immortal king. Yet to that happiness I'd fain aspire; Oh! fill my heart with elevated fire: With angel-songs an artless voice shall blend, The grateful offering shall to thee ascend. Yes! thou wilt breathe a spirit o'er my lyre, And "fill my beating heart with sacred fire!" And when to thee my youth, my life, I've giv'n, Raise me, to join Eliza, blest in heav’n.

To Independence

TO INDEPENDENCE.

Hail! Independence, source of blessings, hail! Nurse of the towering thought, the gallant deed; When blest by thee how sweet the simple vale, How charms with thee the brook, th' enamell'd mead! And when the lark, the messenger of day, Proclaims the roseate morn will soon appear; With thee what melody inspires the lay, How soft the carol, how distinct, how clear. With thee how doubly fair by Cynthia's beam, The starry lamps resplendent in the sky: How gently flows the chrystal purling stream, How radiant Phœbus meets the dazzled eye. With thee how jocund fleets th' ecstatic hour, How shine the lucid drops which bend the flower; How gay the sylvan scene, whene'er we rove, Wandering with thee, and with the maid we love.

To the Moon

TO THE MOON.

Cyllene rise! yon osier trees, Waving their branches to the breeze, Court thee in hollow gentle sighs, And whisper, "Fair Cyllene rise."

Heaven's canopy is studded bright, With countless stars, in streams of light; Yet what avail their beams divine, If thou fair queen, refuse to shine?

The shepherd's lute with sprightly sound Awakes the mountain echoes round; And as the warbling cadence dies, It murmurs forth, "Cyllene rise."

Down in yon vale the minstrel's hand Strikes the loud harp to glory's band; And as the glowing theme's pursu'd, Feels all his youthful fires renew'd.

And now to thee he tunes the lay, And courts thy soft and placid ray; Romantic melody awakes the skies, To thee he carols, "Fair Cyllene rise."

Youth

YOUTH.

Oh! halcyon Youth, delightful hours, When not a cloud of sorrow lowers; When every moment wings its flight, To waft new joy and new delight. Kind, unsuspecting, and sincere, Youth knows no pang, no jealous fear; And sprightly Health, with cherub face, Enlivens ev'ry opening grace; And laughing Pleasure hovers near, And tranquil Peace to youth is dear. If Sorrow heave the little breast, There plaintive sorrow cannot rest; For swiftly flies the transient pain, And Pleasure re-assumes her reign. The tale the sons of woe impart, Vibrates upon the youthful heart: The soul is open to belief, And Pity flies to soften grief. Hope with sweet expressive eye, Mirth, and gay Felicity, Fancy in her lively dress, Pity who delights to bless; Innocence, and candid Truth, These and more attend on Youth.

Hymn - Great God! at whose "creative word,"

HYMN.

Great God! at whose "creative word," Arising Nature own'd her Lord; At whose behest, from gloomy night The earth arose in order bright! To whom the poet swells the song, And cherub's loftier notes belong: To Thee be glory, honour, praise; Great God! who canst depress or raise.

Say all ye learned, all ye wise, What towering pillars prop the skies? What massy chain suspends the earth? 'Tis His high power who gave it birth. 'Tis He who sends the grateful shower; 'Tis He who paints the glowing flower. Let the loud anthem raise the strain, While echo murmurs it again. And ye who wander o'er the sheaf-crown'd fields, Praise Him for all the plenty harvest yields; Let harp and voice their swelling notes combine, To praise all nature's God, the architect divine

The Exile

THE EXILE.

Why memory recal the chearful hours, The tranquil time that never can return; When gaily wandering in my native bowers, I once was smiling as the summer morn.

And why recal my early friendships dear, Why lead my thoughts to fond illusions past: They claim the plaintive tribute of a tear; I weep for dreams of joy that fled so fast.

Ah! still will Fancy all the scenes revive, The favorite scenes that charm'd my youthful breast; She bids them now in softer colours live, And paints the cottage of domestic rest.

When pleasure lighted up my sparkling eye, And on swift pinions flew the social day; Ah! then I pour'd the simple melody, To hail the brilliance of the matin ray.

Ah! still retentive only to my woe, Will memory trace the picture of my cot; And while in vain the tears of sorrow flow, I rove in fancy to the sacred spot:

There fragrant woodbines form'd a mantling bower; And there I planted the luxuriant vine; There love and friendship bless'd the festive hour, While every rural happiness was mine.

Ah! thus will "sadly-pleasing" memory dwell On all the hopes, the fond illusions o'er; And still with touching power she loves to tell, Of happy moments to return no more.

The Lily of the Vale

THE LILY OF THE VALE.

See bending to the gentle gale, The modest lily of the vale; Hid in its leaf of tender green, Mark its soft and simple mien. Thus sometimes Merit blooms retir'd, By genius, taste, and fancy fir'd; And thus 'tis oft the wanderer's lot, To rove to Merit's peaceful cot, As I have found the lily sweet, That blossoms in this wild retreat.

Invocation to the Fairies. For my Sister’s Grotto

INVOCATION TO THE FAIRIES.

FOR MY SISTER’S GROTTO.

Fays and Fairies haste away! This is Harriet's holiday: Bring the lyre, and bring the lute, Bring the sweetly-breathing flute; Wreaths of cowslips hither bring, All the honours of the spring; Adorn the grot with all that's gay, Fays and Fairies haste away.

Bring the vine to Bacchus dear, Bring the purple lilac here, Festoons of roses, sweetest flower, The yellow primrose of the bower, Blue-ey'd violets wet with dew, Bring the clustering woodbine too. Bring in baskets made of rush, The cherry with its ripen'd blush, The downy peach, so soft so fair, The luscious- grape, the mellow pear: These to Harriet hither bring, And sweetly in return she'll sing. Be the brilliant grotto scene The palace of the Fairy Queen. Form the sprightly circling dance, Fairies here your steps advance; To the harp's soft dulcet sound, Let your footsteps lightly bound. Unveil your forms to mortal eye; Let Harriet view your revelry.

Liberty. An Ode

LIBERTY.

AN ODE.

Where the bold rock majestic towers on high, Projecting to the sky; Where the impetuous torrent's rapid course Dashes with headlong force; Where scenes less wild less awful meet the eye, And cultur'd vales and cottages appear; Where softer tints the mellow landscape dye, More simply beautiful, more fondly dear; There sportive Liberty delights to rove, To rove unseen, In the dell, or in the grove, 'Midst woodlands green.

And when placid eve advancing, Faintly shadows all the ground; Liberty with Hebe dancing, Wanders through the meads around.

Fair wreaths of brightest flowers she loves to twine, Moss-rose, and blue-bell wild; The pink, the hyacinth with these combine, And azure violet, nature's sweetest child!

When the moon beam silvery streaming, Pierces through the myrtle shade; Then her eye with pleasure beaming, She trips along the sylvan glade.

She loves to sing in accents soft, When the wood-lark soars aloft; She loves to wake the sprightly horn,And swell the joyful note to celebrate the morn!

In the dell, or in the grove, Liberty delights to rove; By the ruin'd moss-grown tower, By the wood-land, or the bower; On the summit thence to view, The landscape clad in varied hue. By the hedge-row on the lawn, Sporting with the playful fawn; Where the winding river flows, And the pensile osier grows, In the cool impervious grove, Liberty delights to rove.

Hymn - Oh! thou Creator, Father, Friend

HYMN.

Oh! thou Creator, Father, Friend, Source of all blessings mortals prize, Let nature's praise to thee ascend, In swelling chorus to the skies.

Most high, ineffable, supreme, Celestial, awful, brightest bright; The cherubim's inspiring theme, Enrob'd in glory, crown'd with light!

When solemn thunders distant roll, And when the vivid lightnings dart, They strike upon th' astonish'd soul, And speak thy pow'r to ev'ry heart.

To a Beautiful Vine and a Rose-Bush

TO A BEAUTIFUL VINE AND A ROSE-BUSH.

Thou fair expanding mossy-rose, Long may thy opening foliage twine With this luxuriant cluster'd vine; Which round thee wreathes its tender boughs.

Fair vine, long may thy leaves extend, While gentle showers refresh thy root; Long may thy graceful branches bend, Enrich'd with purpling luscious fruit.

Sweet rose, long may thy flow'rs receive The lucid tears of morn and eve; Long mayst thou in profusion spread, Thy straying buds of brigthest red.

Ode to the Evening Star

ODE TO THE EVENING STAR.

Lovely Hesperus arise, Why so tardy, glittering star? See already in the skies, Cynthia guides her beaming car. The night is placid, sweet, and clear, Hesperus, appear, appear.

Deign this festive eve to bless, Thou, than glowing gems more bright! Beaming in thy fairest dress, Shed thy lustre on the night. Auspicious Hesperus, appear, In thy radiance, soft and clear.

From the busy world retiring, Now the pensive eve we hail; Let thy ray so calm inspiring, Cheer us in this happy vale: Hesperus, arise, arise, Shine amid the azure skies.

Light as gossamer that's borne Floating on the breath of morn; Light as fays that haunt the shade, We lead the dance along the glade: Hesper with thy light serene, Gild the merry merry scene.

To My Brother and Sister, in the Country. Written in London

TO

MY BROTHER AND SISTER, IN THE COUNTRY.

WRITTEN IN LONDON.

Happy soon we'll meet again, Free from sorrow, care, and pain; Soon again we'll rise with dawn, To roam the verdant dewy lawn. Soon the budding leaves we'll hail, Or wander through the well-known vale;

Or weave the smiling wreath of flowers, And sport away the light-wing'd hours. Soon we'll run the agile race, Soon, dear play-mates, we'll embrace; Through the wheat-field or the grove, We'll hand in hand delighted rove; Or, beneath some spreading oak, Ponder the instructive book; Or view the ships that swiftly glide, Floating on the peaceful tide: Or raise again the caroll'd lay; Or join again in mirthful play; Or listen to the humming bees, As their murmurs swell the breeze; Or seek the primrose where it springs; Or chase the fly with painted wings: Or talk amidst the arbour's shade; Or mark the tender shooting blade; Or stray beside the babbling stream, When Luna sheds her placid beam; Or gaze upon the glassy sea; Happy, happy, shall we be.

Astre de la Nuit. Par Anna Coxe, agée de douze ans et demi.

ASTRE DE LA NUIT.

(Par ANNA COXE, agée de douze ans et demi.)

Belle astre de la nuit charmante, Aimable et clairvoyante; Que je t'aime, que je t'adore, Quand tu disparais avant l'aurore.

Rivale timide de la lune modeste, Encore plus belle, et plus celeste; Brillante avec eclat dans l'air, Parmi le doux atmosphere.

Continue oh! belle astre luisante, De guider mes pas errants; Et de soirée en soirée, Eclairer mes promenades égarées.

TRANSLATION.

Heavenly star of lovely night, Glittering in the azure sky, How I love thy halo bright, When stealing from Aurora's eye.

Rival of Phoebe's placid gleam, Still more celestial is thy beam; How brilliant is thy lustre clear, Amidst the balmy atmosphere.

Continue lucent shining star, To guide my wandering steps afar; And still each evening as I stray, Shed o'er my walk thy silver ray. F. D. B.

Chanson

CHANSON.

(WRITTEN IN LONDON.)

Quand j'etois en Galles, ce pays charmant, Avec mes oiseaux, Pres de mes ruisseaux; Mes ruisseaux si transparens; Parmis les vallées Humides de rosée; De doux eglantiers, Je fus couronnée: Oh! que je me trouvois toujours gaie. F. D. B.

The April Morn

THE APRIL MORN.

Now a smile, and now a frown; Brightening now, and now cast down; Now 'tis cheerful, now it lowers; Yet sunshine in the midst of showers.

Now the sky is calm and clear; Now the frowning clouds appear: Evanescent soon they fly; Calm and clear again the sky.

Such the face which April wears, Now in smiles, and now in tears; Like the life we lead below, Full of joy, and full of woe.

Lovely prospects now arise; Vanish now before our eyes: Yet, amid the clouds of grief, Still a sun-beam sheds relief. Like the face which April wears, Now in smiles, and now in tears.

Ode to Mirth

ODE TO MIRTH.

Thou, oh! Mirth, with laughing eye, Spread thy empire o'er my soul; No cares obtrude when thou art by, To crown the bright nectareous bowl.

Leave the rich to pomp and splendour; Happiness they cannot render. Let the miser heap his hoard; Mirth shall bless the festive board. Friendship and the smiling muse Their influence all around diffuse.