"STANZAS,

Written for "the shrine of Bertha.”*

ROBINSON.

PLEAS'D with the calm bewitching hour,
When ev'ning shadows o'er the plain,
I seek my solitary bow'r,

And listen to the night-owl's strain!

Here, where the woven ivy hangs,

Once the rich shrine of marble rose! And chaste-ey'd Vestals sigh'd their pangs, And bath'd, with icy tears, their woes. And here, where on the rugged ground The sculptur'd fragments scatter'd lie, Erst did the choral anthem sound,

And holy incense meet the sky.

What are ye now? ye arches drear,
What can ye show to sooth the breast?
Save pensive twilight's frequent tear,
That falls in crystal lustre drest!

Yet o'er the scene of rude decay,
Blythe nature darts the morning beam!
And here the blushing evening ray
Inspires the soul with fancy's dream!

And here wan Cynthia sheds her light,
The shatter'd roofs and walls among;
And here the solemn hour of night
Is cheer'd by Philomela's song!

And here the pilgrim, poor and sad,
No kindred smile his breast to warm,

May find what cruel foes forbad,
A shelter from the howling storm!

* A Novel, by M. E, Robinson,

Blow, blow, ye keen, ye ruthless winds!
Ye livid light'nings, dart around!
While terror freezes guilty minds,

And conscience owns the cureless wound.

Here can I view, unchill'd with dread,
The lofty aisle and shadowy dome;
The turrets tottering o'er the dead;
The long-drawn monumental gloom!

Here, still, without one holy rite,
The hapless Bertha's form shall sleep!
While blushing Rigour shrinks from light,
And Melancholy hides-to weep.

With Superstition gliding round,

A thousand ghastly shades shall gleam; While o'er the dew-besprinkled ground Steals the faint moon's retiring beam!

Yet, hither shall the red-breast bring
The lily, and the palest rose;
And all the fairest flowers of spring,
To dress her bed-of long repose.

Oh, gentle bird! no wanderer rude
Shall bid thee from these ruins flee;
Blest minstrel of this solitude!

Still shalt thou sing-to solace me.

THE BUTTERFLY TO HIS LOVE.

ANN RADCLIFFE.

WHAT bow'ry dell, with fragrant breath,
Courts thee to stay thy airy flight:
Nor seek again the purple heath,
So soft the scene of gay delight?

Long I've watch'd i' the lily's bell,

Whose whiteness stole the morning's beam;
No fluttering sounds thy coming tell,
No waving wings, at distance gleam.

But fountain fresh, nor breathing grove,
Nor sunny mead, nor blossom'd tree,

So sweet as lily's cell shall prove ;—
The bow'r of constant love and me,

When April buds begin to blow,
The primrose and the hare-bell blue,
That on the verdant moss-bank grow
With violet cups, that weep
in dew;

When wanton gales breath through the shade,
And shakes the blooms and steals their sweets,
And swell the song of every glade,

1 range the forest's green retreats :

There through the tangled wood-walks play,
Where no rude urchin paces near,
Where sparely peeps the sultry day,
And light dews freshen all the air.

High on a sun-beam oft I sport,

O'er bower and fountain, vale and hill ;

Oft ev'ry blushing flow'ret court,

That hangs its head o'er winding rill,

But these I'll leave to be thy guide,

And show thee where the jas'mine spreads
Her snowy leaf, where May-flow'rs hide,
And rose-buds rear their peeping heads.
With me the mountain's summit scale,
And taste the wild-thyme's honey'd bloom,
Whose fragrance, floating on the gale,
Oft leads me to the cedar's gloom.

Yet, yet, no sound comes in the breeze!
What shade thus dares to tempt thy stay?
Once, me alone thou wish'd to please,
And with me only thou would'st stray.

But while thy long delay I mourn,

And chide the sweet shades for their guile,
Thou may'st be true, and they forlorn,
And fairy favours court thy smile.

The tiny queen of fairy-land,

Who knows thy speed, hath sent thee far, To bring, or ere the night-watch stand, Rich essence for her shadowy car;

Perchance her acorn-cups to fill

With nectar from the Indian rose,
Or gather, near some haunted rill,
May-dews that lull to sleep love's woes.
Qro'er the mountains bade thee fly,
To tell her fairy love to speed,
When evening hangs upon the sky,
To dance along the twilight-mead.

But now I see thee sailing low,

Gay as the brightest flow'rs in spring, Thy coat of blue and jet I know,

And well thy gold and purple wing.

Borne on the gale, thou com'st to me;
O! welcome, welcome to my home!
In lily's cell we'll live in glee;

Together o'er the mountains roam!

COME, Melancholy! silent pow'r,
Companion of my lonely hour,
To sober thought confin'd:
Thou sweetly sad ideal guest,
In all thy soothing charms confest,
Indulge my pensive mind.

No longer wildly hurried thro'
The tides of mirth, that ebb and flow,
In Folly's noisy stream:

I from the busy crowd retire,
To court the objects that inspire

Thy philosophie dream.

Thro' yon dark grove of mournful yews

With solitary steps I muse,

By thy direction led:

Here, cold to pleasure's tempting forms,

Can 'sociate with my sister worms,

And mingle with the dead.