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But, lo! at last he comes with crowded sail !

Lo! o'er the cliff what eager figures bend! And, hark,what mingled murmurs swell the gale!

In each he hears the welcome of a friend,

'Tis she, 'tis she herself! she waves her hand!

Soon is the anchor cast, the canvass furld'; Soon through the whitening surge he springs to

land, And clasps the maid he singled from the world.

S. ROGERS.

HANNAH.

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER WHO IS DEAD TO ME.

At fond sixteen, my roving heart Was pierced with love's delightful dart: Keen transport throbb’d in every veinI never felt so sweet a pain! Where circling woods embower'd the glade, I met the dear romantic maid : I stole her hand-it shrunk—but, no! 'I would not let my captive go. With all the fervency of youth, While passion told the tale of truth, I mark'd my Hannah's downcast eye, 'Twas kind, but beautifully shy.

Not with a warmer, purer ray,
The Sun enamour'd woos young May;
Nor May, with softer modest grace,
Turns from the Sun her blushing face.

But, swifter than the frighted dove,
Fled the gay morning of my love ;
Oh! that so bright a morn so soon
Should vanish in so dark a noon!
The angel of affliction rose,
And in his train a thousand woes;
He pour'd his vial on my head,
And all the heaven of rapture fled.
Yet, in the glory of my pride,
I stood—and all his wrath defied;
I stood—though whirlwinds shook my brain,
And lightnings cleft my soul in twain.
I shunn'd my nymph; yet knew not why
I durst not meet her gentle eye:
I shunn'd her—for I could not bear
To marry her to my despair.
Yet, sick at heart with hope delay'd,
Oft the dear image of that maid
Glanced, like the rainbow, o'er my mind,
And promised happiness behind.
The storm blew o'er, and in my breast
The halcyon peace rebuilt her nest;
The storm blew o'er, and clear and mild
The sea of youth and pleasure smiled.
'Twas on the morning of that day
When Phoebus marries rosy May,
I sought once more the charming spot,
Where bloom'd the thorn by Hannah's cot.
O! as I cross’d the neighbouring plain,
I lived my wooing days again;
And fancy sketch'd my future life,
My home, my children, and my wife.

I saw the village steeple rise
My soul sprang, sparkling, in mine eyes;
The rural bells rang sweet and clear
My fond heart listen’d in mine ear.
I reach'd the hamlet; all was gay;
I love a rustic holiday!
I met a wedding-stepp'd aside;
O God!--my Hannah was the bride!
There is a grief that cannot feel;
It leaves a wound that will not beal!
My heart grew cold-it felt not then!
When shall it cease to feel again?

MONTGOMERY.

THE GARLAND.
The pride of every grove I chose,

The violet sweet and lily fair,
The dappled pink and blushing rose,

To deck my charming Chloe's hair.
At morn the nymph vouchsafed to place

Upon her brow the various wreath ; The flowers less blooming than her face,

The scent less fragrant than her breath. The flowers she wore along the day,

And every nymph and shepherd said, That in her hair they look'd more gay

Than glowing in their native bed. Undress'd at evening, when she found

Their odours lost, their colours pass’d, She changed her look, and on the ground

Her garland and her eye she cast,

That eye dropp'd sense distinct and clear,

As any Muse's tongue could speak, When from its lid a pearly tear

Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek.

6

Dissembling what I knew too well,

My love, my life,' said I, explain This change of humour; pr’ythee tell,

That falling tear-what does it mean? She sigh’d; she smiled; and to the flowers

Pointing, the lovely moralist said, “See, friend, in some few fleeting hours,

See yonder what a change is made!
Ah me! the blooming pride of May

And that of Beauty are but one;
At morn both flourish, bright and gay,

Both fade at evening, pale and gone.
• At dawn poor Stella danced and sung,

The amorous youth around her bow'd; At night her fatal knell was rung;

I saw and kiss'd her in her shroud. • Such as she is who died to-day,

Such I, alas! may be to-morrow; Go, Damon, bid thy Muse display

The justice of thy Chloe's sorrow.'

PRIOR.

TO THE RIVER ISIS *.

Fair Isis, thy marge as despairing I lie, Thy Muse-haunted wave with wild florets confined,

[eth nigh, Makes me grieve when I think that the time draw

When for ever, I fear, I must leave thee behind. May thy bosom, with quivering shadows impress'd From the silver green willow that graces thy shore,

[guest, With regret miss the step of a death-stricken

And echo list oft for the sound of his oar. Though her lover is fallen--thy copses among,

When Philomel warbles at close of the day, May no friend be wanting to catch her lorn song,

And welcome the gentlest herald of May! May the suns I have seen, and the cloudless blue skies,

[around, The soft-breathing meads, and the woodlands Still, still feed with raptures a thousand fond eyes,

Though I be far distant, and cold in the ground ! Why dwell on the thought then? sad Fancy, depart,

[spell; And charm me no more with thy treacherous The first of past joys I dismiss from my heart,

When thee, O sweet Isis, I once bid farewell!

HEADLEY

• Written during the illness which terminated in his death.

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