n. King Henry to Rosamond.

By the same.

13

III. From De la Pole, Duke of

Suffolk, to Margaret Queen of

Henry the Sixth. By W. J. 16

IV. From Mary Q. of France,

to Charles Brandon, Duke of

Suffolk

26

XI. From Miss

to the

Earl of

87

XII. Abelard to Eloisa. By W.

Pattison

97

XIII. Abelard to Eloisa. By J.

Cawthorne, M. A.

104

XIV. The African Prince, now

in England, to Zara at his

Father's Court. Written in

the year 1749. By William

Dodd, L. L. D.

117

XV. Zara, at the Court of Ana.

maboe, to the African Prince,

when in England. By the

same

125

XVI. The Dying Negro 133

Notes on Epistles Heroic and

Amatory

151

69

From these lone shades and ever-gloomy bowers,
Once the dear scenes of Henry's softer hours !
What tender strains of passion can impart
The pangs of absence to an amorous heart !
Far, far too faint the powers of language prove, ,
Language that slow interpreter of love!
Souls pair'd like ours, like ours to union wrought,
Converse by silent sympathy of thought;
O then, by that mysterious art, divine
The wild impatience of my breast by thine!
And, to conceive what I would say to thee,
Conceive, my Love, what thou wouldst say to mer

10

20

As in the tenderness of soul I sigh, Methinks I hear thy tender soul reply ; And as in thought, o'er heaps of heroes slain, I trace thy progress on the fatal plain, Perhaps thy thought explores me thro' the grove, And, softening, steals an interval of love; In the deep covert of a bowering shade Describes my posture-languishingly laid ! Now, sadly solac'd with the murmuring springs, Now, melting into tears, the softest things! And how the feign'd ideas all agree ! So bowers the shade, so melt my tears for thee! Heře, as in Eden, once we blissful lay, How oft night stole, unheeded, on the day! Our soft-breath'd raptures charm'd the listening

grove, And all was harmony, for all was love!

But hark! the trumpet sounds ! see discords rise ! 'Tis honor calls; from me my Henry Alies ! 30 Honor to him, more bright than Rosamonda's eyes ! Not thus my honor with his passion strove, His sighs I pitied, and indulg'd his love : He then cried, “ honor was an empty name, “ And love a sweeter recompense than fame."

Oh! had I liv'd in some obscure retreat, Securely fair, and innocently sweet; How had I bless'd some humble shepherd's arms ! How kept my fame as spotless as my charms!

Then hadst thou ne'er beheld these eyes of mine, Led
Nor they bewail'd the fatal power of thine!
Dear fatal power! to me for ever dear
Fix'd in my tender breast, and rooted there!
For ever in my tender breast remain-
And be for ever a delightful pain !

With what surprize those glories first I view'd,
That in one moment my whole heart subdued !
With such resistless beams, so fierce they shone,
Not such the dazzling radiance of thy crown!
Sent from thy crown I never felt a dart;
The lover, not the monarch, won my heart :
Nore'er the monarch with such charms appears,
As when the lover's soften'd dress he wears :
As when he, silent, deigns my breast to seek,
And looks such language as no tongue can speak.

Whene'er my crimes (if love a crime can be,
If'is a crime to live, and die for thee !)
In hideous forms arise, and cloud my soul,
One thought of Henry can that gloom control :
No more my breast alternate passions move,
The frosts of honor melt before the fires of love.

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Again I must repeat that fatal hour, Which snatch'd my Henry from his Woodstock

bower; When mad Bellona, with tumultuous cries, The hero rouz’d, and drown'd the lover's sighs.