WILLIAM BELOE.

1788.

The Rev. Mr. Beloe is a gentleman well known in the learned world. He is author of some respectable works, and the translator of others.

ELEGY.

YES, DELIA! long as beats this trembling heart, Those scenes, those hours shall sweet remembrance

bring,

In which as yet had cold Regret no part,

But we were gay, and cheerful as the Spring.

Those scenes, those hours in pensive song shall live, When our true hearts the purest offerings made; When much we lov'd our secret thoughts to give, As friendship prompted in some silent shade.

The flowery wreaths which then thy fingers wove, Still all their perfume, all their bloom retain ; The tender tales which then our hearts could move, Now warm to pleasure, and now wake to pain!

Fancy, be still! restrain thy wanton pride,

For thy gay moments shall return no more: Hush'd are the winds, and calm the azure tide; And, lo! the bark has reach'd its destin'd shore.

Yet thou didst oft in wildest vision stray,
And pouredst oft a sweet delusive strain ;

Soft Passion listen'd to the fairy lay,

Nor could believe that all thy dreams were vain :

And, while to distant climes and future hours
Young credulous Hope in flowery bands you led,
To his rapt eye exhausted all your pow'rs,
His unsuspicious soul those pow'rs obey'd.

And oft with thee, he fascinated rov'd

Gay fragrant meads and myrtle bowers among :
Delia can tell how much thy power he prov'd ;
For she, too, listen'd to the syren song.

But, ah! soft Passion must awake no more;
So reason bids, and so does fate ordain:

Yet will the Muse that wayward fate deplore,
And yet lament that Fancy's dreams were vain!

SONNET.

BREATHE Soft, ye Gales! along the vernal plain,
More solemn notes awake my gentle Lyre;
For, did not Beauty ask a different Strain?

A theme far different of the Muse require ?
Fair though she be; though each impassion'd heart,
Powerless, submit to her superior charms;
She bids and I forego the pleasing part,
To sing of beauty, and of love's alarms.
Be to her Virtue, then, my song address'd,

Here, let the Muse her strength, her sweetness prove; And sure she is with every virtue bless'd,

Which heightens beauty, and increases love! As shines the blushing rose, midst dews of morn, So does SEMIRA's mind her form adorn.

THOMAS MONTGOMMERY.

1790.

This gentleman resides at Sheffield, where he is Editor and proprietor of "The Iris" newspaper. Under the signature Alcæus, he forms one of the ablest contributors to the present "Poetical Register." A poet of uncommon excellence, nothing but his diffidence can have restrained Mr. Montgommery from asserting the rank to which he is entitled among his contemporaries.

HANNAH.

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

Ar fond sixteen, my roving heart
Was pierc'd by Love's delightful dart:
Keen transport throbb'd in every vein―
I 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 wooes young May;
Nor May with softer maiden grace
Turns from the sun her blushing face.

But swifter than the frighted dove,
Fled the gay morning of my love ;—
Ah! 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

Glanc'd, like the rainbow, o'er my mind,
And promis'd 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 smil'd.

'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 liv'd 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-stept aside;

O, God!-my Hannah was the Bride!

There is a grief that cannot feel; It leaves a wound that will not heal!

My heart grew cold-it felt not then!

When shall it cease to feel again?