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Lead where the pine-woods wave on high,
Whose pathless sod is darkly seen,
As the cold moon, with trembling eye
Darts her long beams the leaves between.

Lead to the mountain's dusky head,

Where, far below, in shade profound, Wide forests, plains, and hamlets spread, And sad the chimes of vesper sound.

Or, guide me where the dashing oar
Just breaks the stillness of the vale,
As slow it tracks the winding shore,
To meet the ocean's distant sail :

To pebbly banks, that Neptune laves
With measur'd surges, loud and deep;
Where the dark cliff bends o'er the waves,
And wild the winds of Autumn sweep.

There pause at midnight's spectred hour,
And list the long-resounding gale;
And catch the fleeting moonlight's pow'r
O'er foaming seas and distant sail!

Anne Radcliffe.

SONNET TO THE MOON.

QUEEN of the silver bow!-by thy pale beam, Alone and pensive, I delight to stray,

And watch thy shadow trembling in the stream, Or mark the floating clouds that cross thy way.

And while I gaze, thy mild and placid light
Sheds a soft calm upon my troubled breast
And oft I think-fair planet of the night,

That in thy orb the wretched may have rest.

The sufferers of the earth perhaps may go,
Releas'd by death-to thy benignant sphere;
And the sad children of despair and woe
Forget in thee, their cup of sorrow here.
Oh! that I soon may reach thy world serene,
Poor wearied pilgrim-in this toiling scene!

LINES ADDRESSED TO A FALLEN LEAF.

PALE wither'd wand'rer, seek not here

A refuge from the ruthless sky:
This breast affords no happier cheer
Than the rude blighting blast you fly.

Cold is the atmosphere of grief,
When storins assail the barren breast;
Go, then, poor exile, seek relief
In bosoms where the heart has rest.

Or fall upon th' oblivious ground,
Where silent sorrows buried lie;
There rest is surely to be found,
Or what, alas! to hope have I?

Where, sepulchred in peace, repose
In yonder field the village dead,
Go, seek a shelter among those

Who all their mortal tears have shed.

But if thou com'st a sibyl's leaf,
Such as did erst high truths declare,
To tell me soon shall end my grief,
I bless the omen that you bear.

For sure you tell me that my woe

An end like thine at length shall have ;
That wan like thee, and wasted so,
I sink to the forgetful grave:

Then come, thou messenger of peace!

Come, lodge within this troubled breast,

And lie there till we both shall cease

To seek in vain for nature's rest.

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LINES WRITTEN IN AN INN.

WHEN carly the sun sinks in winter to bed,

And the western horizon gleams faintly with red;
When the mists of the ev'ning rise thick from the vales,
As darkness creeps on, and hush'd silence prevails;
At th' approach of night's gloom o'er the rest of his course,
The traveller mourns for himself and his horse,
And bewails his hard fate, forc'd alone thus, and weary,
His way to pursue through roads dirty and dreary.

But when safe in his inn, and his horse at the manger,
How snug he reflects on past darkness and danger!
His fire now so warm is, his steak so well dress'd ;
His wine (gin and sloe-juice) so truly the best;
The warming-pan ready, and Molly so sweet!
The arm'd chair so easy, the bed-room so neat;
So gratefully slumber encircles his brow!

No hero more blest than our traveller now!

Can an inn, then, such comfort impart, 'midst the squall
Of waiter! boots! chambermaid! ostler! and all?
Far from home, far from spouse, far from children, and
friend,

Can the traveller fancy all care at an end?

The reason my muse in few words shall explain-
To contrast we owe all our pleasure, and pain:

For cause and effect are confounded in this,

That bliss leads to woe, and then-woe leads to bliss.

From a MS.

A WHISPER TO THE HEART.

A MORNING REFLECTION

IN

SPRING.

ON yonder bank a beauteous flower
Lifts its fair form to meet the spring,
Hails early sunshine's genial power,
Soft airs that vernal breezes bring,

Too lovely, tender plant! beware,
The world's a treach'rous, cruel clime;
Now sun-beam'd zephyrs sport in air,
Now frost and storms deface the prime.

How happy, had I power to shield

From each chill blast, each boist'rous wind;

Or, gently take what thou might'st yield,
And fondly in my bosom bind!

Alas! beyond my hope to reach,
And for my guardian care too high,
In vain my longing arms I stretch,
Admire, and love, and gaze, and sigh!

Yet may no season's changing gloom
Thy native elegance restrain;

No rude hand teach thine op'ning bloom
To sink into itself again.

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