What though no Auburn's bard, inspir'd of heaven,
To these fair haunts perennial fame hath given;
What though they thus have bloom'd from age to age,
(Ne'er character'd in History's blazon'd page)
In humble privacy, unseen, unknown,

Save by a few, whom Labour calls her own ;-
Yet are they still to fancy, feeling, dear,
Still prompt the' enthusiast's sadly pleasing tear;
Still every charm these varying prospects give
In Memory's blest elysium long shall live.

At this most pensive hour, when from afar
Still Twilight hither guides her shadowy car,
How sweet to mark the sun's deep roseate glow
Rest slowly lingering on yon mountain's brow!
Oft through the vistas of those arching trees,
That woo the kisses of the evening breeze,
A lengthening ray of soft cerulean light.
Now quivering gleams, now vanishes from sight.
The purpling trefoil, redolent of May,

The unyok'd steeds, that homeward drag their way,
The clustering woodbine, peeping from the glade,
In contrast with the holly's duskier shade,
The village steeple, tapering to the sky,

(So should meek Faith to heaven uplift her eye!)
The cotter's lattic'd home, the curling smoke,
The fading grandeur of yon lonely oak,
The plumy jubilants' last sweet farewell,
The simple music of the shepherd's bell,

The streamlet, gurgling from the cliffs above,
The milkmaid's song of one, who died for love,
And voice of echo, heard at every close*,
All, all inspire a cherublike repose!

A soft, responsive voice was heard at every close."
Collins's Ode on the Passions.

LINES

WRITTEN ON SEEING A ROSE STILL BLOOMING AT A COTTAGE DOOR ON EGHAM HILL.

OCTOBER 29, 1800.

WHY dost thou linger still, sweet flower?
Why yet remain thy leaves to flaunt?
This is for thee no fostering hour-
The cold wind blows,

And many a chilling, ruthless shower
Will now assail thee! beauteous rose !

Around thee hardy trees may shew

Their verdant branches later still;
But thy soft blushes taught to glow
For summer's day,

Must when the wintry tempests blow-
Like beauty's cheek, fade fast away!

Youth's glowing emblem! wherefore stay
And waste thy balmy breath around?
This is for thee a killing day:

Then wherefore here

Exhaust thy life in sighs away,

Bathed in chill winter's frozen tear.

Thou emblemest the beauteous mind,
Thrown on Misfortune's gloomy scene!
Unheeded, with the wild-weeds twined-
Thou here art placed !

Thou! whom by nature's hand designed
Might'st Beauty's breast have proudly graced,

Sweet rose! methinks I hear thee say,
I might have bask'd in Beauty's smile!
Have fainted in the blue eye's ray,
And shrunk in death!

For short had been my glowing day,
And quickly past-my fleeting breath!

I might have bound the golden hair,
Whose folds in wavy lustre glow;
Or sported on the forehead fair!
But one short day

Had seen my beauties rich and rare-
Droop-and for ever fade away!

Here, the poor hovel still displays

My lingering form, while rival flowers
Long since have seen their sunny days,
And shed their sweets;-

Yet here my bosom, morning's rays
And morning's tears-unvanquished meets!

Then happier far the lowly cot,

Where Nature's modest children reign, Than e'en Ambition's loftier lot;

For wealth and power,

In blank Oblivion's gloom forgot

Are phantoms like a summer flower!

MRS. ROBINSON,

THE BEECH TREE'S PETITION.

BY T. CAMPBELL, ESQ.

O LEAVE this barren spot to me!
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
Though bush or floweret never grow
My dark, unwarming shade below;
Nor summer bud perfume the dew
Of rosy blush, or yellow hue;
Nor fruits of Autumn, blossom-born,
My green and glossy leaves adorn;
Nor murmuring tribes from me derive
The' ambrosial amber of the hive;
Yet leave this barren spot to me:
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
Thrice twenty summers I have seen
The sky grow bright, the forest green;
And many a wintry wind have stood
In bloomless fruitless solitude,
Since childhood in my pleasant bower
First spent its sweet and sportive hour,
Since youthful lovers in my shade
Their vows of truth and rapture made;
And on my trunk's surviving frame,
Carv'd many a long forgotten name.

Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound,
First breath'd upon this sacred ground;
By all that Love had whisper'd here,
Or Beauty heard with ravish'd ear;
As Love's own altar honour me,
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

LINES TO THE RED-BREAST.

LONE songstress of the waning year,
The first amid the feather'd choir
That warbling many a wild note clear
Attun'st the lay to young desire;

Why swells with grief thy little throat?
Why do thy plumes disorder'd lie?
Say from what cause that pensive note
Proceeds, and why that alter'd eye?

Has Fate, beneath the fowler's form,
With cruel aim thy bliss annoy'd?
Or truant-boy, intent on harm,

With savage hand thy young destroy'd?

If 'tis thy lot these woes to prove,
Thy plaintive strain still let me hear;
For as thou wail'st thy injur'd love,

I'll soothe thy sufferings with a tear.