By all the chiefs in Freedom's battles lost;
By wise and virtuous ALFRED's awful ghost;
By old GALGACUS' scythed, iron car,

That, swiftly whirling through the walks of war, Dash'd Roman blood, and crush'd the foreign throngs;

By holy Druids' courage-breathing songs;

By fierce BONDUCA's shield, and foaming steeds; By the bold peers that met on Thames's meads; By the fifth HENRY's helm, and lightning spear; O LIBERTY, my warm petition hear;

Be ALBION Still thy joy! with her remain,

Long as the surge shall lash her oak-crown'd plain!

ΤΟ

THE EDEN,

A RIVER IN WESTMORELAND.

BY J. LANGHORNE, D. D.

DELIGHTFUL Eden! parent stream,
Yet shall the maids of Mem'ry say,
When, led by Fancy's fairy dream,

My young steps trac'd thy winding way; How oft along thy mazy shore,

Where slowly wav'd the willows hoar, In pensive thought their poet stray'd; Or, dozing near thy meadow'd side, Beheld thy dimply waters glide,

Bright through the trembling shade.

Yet shall they paint those scenes again, Where once with infant-joy he play'd,

And bending o'er thy liquid plain,

The azure worlds below survey'd : Led by the rosy-handed Hours,

When Time tript o'er that bank of flowers,

Which in thy crystal bosom smil'd;
Though old the God, yet light and gay,
He flung his glass, his scythe away,
And seem'd himself a child.

The poplar tall, that waving near
Wou'd whisper to thy murmurs free;
Yet rustling seems to sooth mine ear,
And trembles when I sigh for thee.
Yet seated on thy shelving brim,
Can Fancy see the Naiads trim

Burnish their green locks in the sun;
Or at the last lone hour of day,
To chase the lightly glancing jay,
In airy circles run.

But, Fancy, can thy mimic power

Again those happy moments bring? Canst thou restore that golden hour,

When young Joy wav'd his laughing wing?

When first in Eden's rosy vale,

My full heart pour'd the lover's tale,
The vow sincere, devoid of guile!
While Delia in her panting breast,
With sighs, the tender thought supprest,
And look'd as angels smile.

O Goddess of the crystal brow,

That dwell'st the golden meads among; Whose streams still fair in memory flow,

Whose murmurs melodize my song!

Ol yet those gleams of joy display,
Which bright'ning glow'd in Fancy's ray,
When, near thy lucid urn reclin'd,
The Dryad, Nature, bar'd her breast,
And left, in naked charms imprest,
Her image on my mind.

In vain—the maids of Memʼry fair
No more in golden visions play;
No friendship smooths the brow of care,
No Delia's smile approves my lay.
Yet love and friendship lost to me,
'Tis yet some joy to think of thee,

And in thy breast this moral find;

That life, though stain'd with sorrow's showers, Shall flow serene, while Virtue pours

Her sunshine on the mind.

TO A

WATER-NYMPH.

BY THE REV. WILLIAM MASON, M. A.

YE green-hair'd Nymphs ! whom PAN allows
To tend this sweetly-solemn Wood,

To speed the shooting scions into boughs,
And call the roseate blossoms from the bud;
But chief, thou NAIAD, wont so long to lead
This fluid crystal sparkling as it flows;

Whither, ah! whither art thou fled?
What shade is conscious to thy woes?
Ah! 'tis yon poplar's awful gloom;
Poetic eyes can pierce the scene,

Can see thy drooping head, thy with'ring bloom,
See grief diffus'd o'er all thy languid mien.
Well mayst thou wear misfortune's fainting air,
Well rend those flow'ry honours from thy brow,
Devolve that length of careless hair,

And give yon azure veil to flow
Loose to the wind. For ah! thy pain
The pitying Muse can well relate :

Ah! let her, plaintive, pour the tend'rest strain,
To teach the Echoes thy disastrous fate.