Oft as I mark the tribes of air, I cry, [wind! "How with your pinions would I mount the "Oh! with what rapture lifted, cleave the sky, In wishes thus, I daily waste my breath, ELEGY. To a Friend, describing the horrors of his situation after the death of JULIA. FRIEND of my bosom, all my joys are o'er- To gloom and solitude I steal to pine. There, as I sit upon the sod, and sigh, I hear reproof from every happy dove; In fancy's ear they, cooing, seem to cry, "We know not of inconstancy in love." Lo, darkness, tenfold darkness suits my soul! The haunts of spectres let me court to weep; The beach where black with fate the billows roll, And tempests raise the thunders of the DEEP. Thou tellest me that TIME a balm will bring, Soothe ev'ry sigh, and calm my keenest woes:" Go, seek in winter's wild the blooms of spring; Go, whisper to the restless surge, repose! LOVE, injur'd LovE, a sure revenge can boast; LOVE hears my groan, and mocks soul's despair: my [lost; "Bleed, VICTIM, bleed," he cries" thy all is "Such be their portion who deceive the FAIR!" I thought that GRANDEUR with a lib'ral hand Could strew my path of life with sweetest flow'rs; That WEALTH Omnipotent could TIME command, And from his pinions pluck his whitest hours. Constant in MEM'RY's eye her form appears→→→ And hear her sigh in ev'ry passing wind. What now remains, my horrors to beguile ? Away, ye dreams of grandeur, wealth, away! Who cannot give my check one little smile, Nor bribe a single moment to be gay. THE RELIC; OR, THE FAIR MOURNER. BY PETER PINDAR, ESQ. Supposed to be spoken by a LADY, on receiving a lock of the Duke D'ENGHIEN's hair, which he desired to be cut off and presented to her after his execution.-To this Lady, report says, the DUKE was very soon to have been married. DEAR RELIC, to me, ah! divine! On this bosom of sorrow recline, Thy presence will soothe my poor heart. Thou wilt hear the complaint of fond LovE, Thou wilt hear the lorn voice of the dove, Lamenting the loss of her mate, So pure of our pleasures the spring, We rivall'd the ages of old, TIME brought not a care on his wing, For his moments were moments of gold. Near my heart, thou, rich RELIC! shalt lie, While I wander life's valley of gloom; And when thy Companion shall die, We will join in the sleep of the Tomb. THE END. C. SPILSBURY, PRINTER, ANGEL-COURT, SNOWMIIL.. |