ΤΟ Α

LADY GOING ABROAD.

FAR, from me my Delia goes,

And all my pray’rs, my tears are vain ; Nor shall I know one hour's repose, Till Delia bless these eyes again.

Companion of the wretched, come,

Fair hope! and dwell with me a while; Thy heavenly presence gilds the gloom, While happier scenes in prospect smile.

Oh! who can tell what time may do?
How all my sorrows yet may end?
Can she reject a love so true?

Can Delia e'er forsake her friend?

Unkind and rude the thorn is seen,

No sign of future sweetness shows; But time calls forth its lovely green,

And spreads the blushes of the rose.

Then come, fair hope, and whisper peace, And keep the happy scenes in view, When all these cares and fears shall cease, And Delia bless a love so true,

Hope, sweet deceiver, still believ'd,
In mercy sent to sooth our care:
Oh! tell me am I now deceiv'd,

And wilt thou leave me to despair.

Then hear ye powers, my earnest pray'r,
This pang unutterable save;

Let me not live to know despair,
But give me quiet in the grave;

Why should I live to hate the light,
Be with myself at constant strife,
And drag about, in nature's spight,
An useless, joyless load of life?

But far from her all ills remove,
Your favourite care let Delia be,
Long blest in friendship, blest in love,
And may she never think on me.

But if, to prove my love sincere,
The fates a while this trial doom;
Then aid me, hope, my woes to bear,
Nor leave me till my Delia come.

Till Delia come no more to part,

And all these cares and fears remove, Oh, come! relieve this widow'd heart, Oh, quickly come! my pride, my love!

My Delia come! whose looks beguile, Whose smile can charm my cares away ;Oh! come with that enchanting smile, And brighten up life's wintry day;

Oh, come! and make me full amends, For all my cares, my fears, my pain;Delia, restore me to my friends,

Restore me to myself again.

TO THE

GENIUS OF ITALY,

OCCASIONED BY

THE EARL OF CORKE's GOING ABROAD.

BY THE REV. 7. DUNCOMBE, M. A.

O THOU that, on a pointless spear reclin'd,
In dusk of eve oft tak'st thy lonely way
Where Tyber's slow, neglected waters stray,
And pour'st thy fruitless sorrows to the wind,
Grieving to see his shore no more the seat
Of arts and arms, and liberty's retreat.

Italia's Genius, rear thy drooping head,

Shake off thy trance, and weave an olive crown, For see! a noble guest appears, well known

To all thy worthies, though in Britain bred; Guard well thy charge, for know, our polish'd isle Reluctant spares thee such a son as BOYLE.

There, while their sweets thy myrtle groves dispense, Lead to the Sabine or the Tuscan plain,

Where playful Horace tun'd his amorous strain, And Tully pour'd the stream of eloquence;

Nor fail to crown him with that ivy bloom,
Which graceful mantles o'er thy Maro's tomb.

At that blest spot, from vulgar cares refin'd,
In some soft vision or indulgent dream
Inspire his fancy with a glorious theme,
And point new subjects to his generous mind,
At once to charm his country, and improve
The last, the youngest object of his love.

But O! mark well his transports in that shade,
Where, circled by the bay's unfading green,
Amidst a rural and sequestered scene

His much-lov'd Pliny rests his honour'd head;
There, wrapt in silence, will he gaze around,
And strew with sweetest flow'rs the hallow'd ground.

But see! the sage, to mortal view confest,

Thrice waves the hand, and says, or seems to say, The debt I owe thee how shall I repay? Welcome to Latium's shore, illustrious guest! Long may'st thou live to grace thy native isle, • Humane in thought, and elegant in style!

While on thy consort I with rapture gaze,

My own Calphurnia rises to my view :

That bliss unknown but to the virtuous few, Briton! is thine; charm'd with domestic praise,