attempted to be appeased by the paltry but dangerous post of an exciseman, which, as it facilitated the practice of intoxication, must have accelerated his dissolution. This event took place July 21, 1796, in the thirtyeighth year of his age. The poor Inhabitant below Was quick to learn, and wise to know; But thoughtless follies laid him low, BURNS on himself. AFTON WATER. FLOW gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds through the glen, Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, Thou green-crested lapwing thy screaming forbear, I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, How pleasant thy banks and green vallies below, 88 ROBERT BURNS." Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, TO MARY IN HEAVEN. THOU lingering Star, with lessening ray, My MARY from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed Shade! Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? That sacred hour can I forget, Can I forget the hallow'd grove, Where, by the winding Ayr, we met Those records pure of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild-woods thickening green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, Twined amorous round the raptur'd scene; The flowers sprung wanton to be prest, Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? MARY ROBINSON. 1788. Perhaps the period is not yet arrived, in which the character of Mrs Robinson can be dispassionately appreciated. She undoubtedly possessed a genius both valuable and original; while her misfortunes entitled her to more consideration in other respects, than her adversaries have been willing to admit. Without minutely entering into the history of the following poems, selected from her multifarious productions, they were evidently dictated by the circumstances in which they profess to be written; and are the effusions of a heart deeply agitated with the tenderest but most poignant of human passions: they appeal to every bosom, and cannot fail to charm any one that is endued with the least portion of natural sensibility. Mrs. Robinson was born on the 27th of November 1758, at the Minster-House in Bristol, the descendent of a good family, and daughter of reputable parents, of the name of Darby. At sixteen years of age, she became the wife of Mr. R., an event to which she has ascribed the long train of her subsequent calamities. After a series of extraordinary events, during which, being separated from her husband, she attracted the particular attentions of a very Illustrious Prince, Mrs. R. became attached to Colonel (now General) Tarleton ;—a connection which appears to have been the first that really interested her feelings, and which subsisted nearly sixteen years, from the termination of the war in America. Her chequered life was, at length, closed in a kind of stupor, often the precursor of immediate dissolution, on the evening of the 26th of December 1800. She died at a Cottage, near Windsor; and was buried, pursuant to her own directions, in Old Windsor Church-yard.— When bleeding Nature droops to die, And begs from Heaven the' eternal sleep; Hard is the heart that cannot sigh! And curs'd the eye that scorns to weep! How rich the tear by Pity shed! How sweet her sighs for human woes!They pierce the mansions of the Dead! And soothe the Spectre's pale repose! WOLCOTT. THE SORROWS OF MEMORY. In vain to me the howling deep Stern Winter's awful reign discloses ; In vain shall Summer's zephyrs sleep On fragrant beds of budding roses : To me alike each scene appears, Since thou hast broke my heart, or nearly; While Memory writes in frequent tears, That I have lov'd thee-very dearly! How many summers pass'd away, For then I lov'd thee-O! how dearly! And though the flush of joy no more Bid sensual fools that cheek adore, And talk of passions-ever glowing; |