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For such I scatter sweets around,
And deck this fair enchanted ground;
For such tbis close retreat I made,
For such I rais'd this magic shade:
Their steps with guardian care I guide,
And turn each danger far aside;
The ev’ning damps I waft away,
And fan with fresh’ning gales the day ;
With brighter glow I gild the morn,
I hang the dew drops on the thorn;
The swelling bud I watchful tend,
From worms and chilling blights defend;
I give its tints a livelier bloom,
And bid it breathe more ricla perfume;
I polish yon transparent lake,
I dress with roses yonder brake;
The lofty mountain I illuine,
And give the dell its solemn gloom;
I make the bubbling fountain spring,
I teach the linnet how to sing.

Come then, ye justly-favour'd few, These beauteous scenes were form'd for

you: Repose ye in my fairy bowers, And taste the stream, and press the flowers; Gay dreams, by liveliest fancy dress'd, Shall hover round ye while ye rest. Come then, unaw'd by guilty fear, And, freely welcome, enter here.

Mrs. Hughes.

JULIA.

A BALLAD.

To the graves where sleepe the deade

Hapless Julia took her waye; Sighs to heave, and teares to shed,

O'er the spot where Damon laye. Manye a blooming flow're she bore,

O'er the greene grass turfe to throwe; And while fast her teares did poure,

Thus she sang to soothe her woe:

« Softe and safe, tho' lowly grave,

Fast o'er thee my teares shall flowe; Only hope the hapless have,

Only refuge left for woe. Constant love and grief sincere

Shall thy hallow'd turfe pervade; And many a heartfelte sigh and teare,

Hapless youthe, shall soothe thy shade.

Lighted by the moon's pale shine,

See me, to thy mem’ry true, Lowlye bending at thy shrine,

Many a votive flow're to strewe. But how little do these flow'res

Prove my love and constancye! Yet a few sad fleeting houres,

And, deare youthe, I'll follow thee.

“ Rose, replete with scent and hue,

Sweetest flow're that nature blowes, Damon flourish'd once like you;

Nowe o'er him the greene grass grows. Rose, go deck his hallow'd grave,

Lily, o'er the greene turfe twine ; Honour meete that turfe should have,

Beauty's bed, and virtue's shrine.

“ Primrose pale, and vi'let blue,

Jasmine sweete, and eglantine, Nightly here thy sweetes I strewe,

Proud to decke my true love's shrine. Like you, my Damon bloom'd a daye,

He did die, and so must you-
But such charmes can you displaye,

Half so virtuous, half so true?

“ No, sweete flow'rets, no such charmes,

No such virtues can you boaste;
Yet hee's torn from

my
fond

armes,
Yet my faithful love is croste.
But a radiant morne shall rise,

(Loit’ring moments faster flowe,) When with him I'll tread the skies,

Smile at deathe, and laugh at woe.”

Thus she sang, and strew'd the flow're,

Beate her breaste, and wept, and sigh'd ; And, when told the midnight houre,

On the greene turfe grave shee dy'd. Manye a nightingale forlorne,

Sung her knell, while breezes sigh'd: Haughty grandeur heard with scorne, How so poor a mayden dy'd.

Maty's Review.

PETHERTON BRIDGE.*

AN ELEGY.

Inscribed to the Reverend Mr. Bean.

O Bean! whose fond connubial days

A beauteous infant race attend;
Say, wilt thou once more aid my lays,

And join the patron to the friend?

But not o'er bright Aönian plains

Enraptur'd as we us'd to roam : The muse each joyous thought restrains,

And calls her wing'd ideas home.

* Tradition says, that the catastrophe alluded to in this Elegy, happened about two centuries ago; of which the sculpture was yet to be seen at Petherton Bridge, in Somersetshire.

The wedded pair for children pray;

They come-fair blessings from the skies ; What raptures gild the halcyon day !

What joys in distant prospect rise !

But, ah! enamour'd as they view

The smiling, hopeful, infant train, Unseen, misfortune marks his due,

Unheard, he threats the heart with pain.

Had sad disaster ne'er ensnar'd

The soft, the innocent, and young, The tender muse had gladly spar’d

The little heroes of her song,

Se’est thou the limpid current glide

Beneath yon bridge, my hapless theme, Where brambles fringe its verdant side,

And willows tremble o'er the stream ?

From Petherton it takes its name,

From whence two smiling infants stray'd : Led by the stream, they hither came,

And on the flow'ry margin play'd.

Sweet victims! must your short-liv'd day

So soon extinguish in the wave; And point the setting sun his way,

That glimmer'd o'er your wat’ry grave ?

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