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No sun shall drink its silken bloom,
No wintry blasts its dyes consume;
Grief ne'er shall raise her banners pale,
Where now those tints of health prevail ;
But youth shall feed the glowing dyes,
Unstain'd by sorrow's withering sighs:
For ah, too well, alas! I know
She ne'er can feel a lover's woe!
For had she known the secret pain,
She ne'er would wound, with such disdain,
A heart that pines in vain.

Ah plead, sweet Breeze! a lover's part ;
And pour thy mildness o'er her heart.
Ah! say, though Time goes softly past,
He marks his footsteps plain at last ;
And leaves them in the fairest face,
In waning Beauty's vacant place :
Her cruel scorn at least reprove,
Scorn is a hard reward for love.
Ah! bid her not her power abuse;
Ah! bid her not that heart refuse,

Which she may grieve to lose!

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GEORGE HAY DRUMMOND.

1780.

This gentleman is an A. M. and holds considerable preferment in the Cathedral of York. It is but recently that he became a widower. He is reported to have since travelled from England, probably to divert his reflection from dwelling too painfully on the loss of his amiable His verses were with peculiar propriety entitled "Social and Domestic," as they principally delineate those views and feelings, which, in the familiar language of our fathers, come home to men's business and bosoms!

consort.

SONNET.

IS

'Tis not in Hymen's gay propitious hour,
With summer beams and genial breezes blest,
That man a Consort's worth approveth best :
'Tis when the skies with gloomy tempests lour,
When cares and sorrows all their torrents pour,
She clasps him closer to her hallow'd breast,
Pillows his head, and lays his heart to rest;
Drying her cheek from sympathetic show'r.
Thus when along Calabria's sulph'rous coast,
Whilst lurid clouds hang low, and heaves the sea,
In dumb suspense, as one in horror lost,

Nature awaits some fell catastrophe ;
The flight of selfish fowl no partner shares,
But faithful turtles refuge seek in pairs.

LINES

INSCRIBED ON THE TOMB OF LAURA, AND HER INFANT SON.

Go saint belov'd! enjoy celestial rest!

Go in the strength of all-redeeming grace! Rejoin thy cherub babes in mansions blest! And see thy great Creator face to face!

For sure of social and domestic love

A brighter model ne'er this earth hath trod !A purer angel of the realms above

Ne'er bore an infant spirit to his God.

ANNE HUNTER.

1780-1802.

Relict of that eminent anatomist, Dr. John Hunter. Most of Mrs. Hunter's poetical effusions were composed some years ago, though but recently collected into a volume, and were deservedly the admiration of her exten. sive and intelligent circle of friends. This lady is entitled to very high rank among the fair cultivators of literature. Her poems discover a strength of judgment, a delicacy and simplicity of feeling, and a classical sweetness of style, not only seldom to be found in the productions of the female pen, but rarely rivalled by the established male writers of the present age. For the melancholy observable in her writings, it would be presumption to endeavour to account: her sorrows, however, appear to have sprung from a source more affecting than imagination.

THE fatal moment I beheld

Those eyes so fondly fix'd on me,
Some magic sure my heart compell'd
To place its dearest hopes on thee!
And my true faith can alter never,
Though thou art gone perhaps for ever.

Nor dangers past, nor woes to come,

Thy image from my soul can part;
Through years of anguish, to the tomb

"Twill follow this devoted heart:
And my true faith can alter never,
Though thou art gone perhaps for ever.

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FAR, far from me my love is fled,
In a light skiff he tempts the sea,
The young Desires his sails have spread,
And Hope his pilot deigns to be:

The promis'd land of varied joys,
Which so delights his fickle mind,
In waking dreams his days employs,
While I, poor I, sing to the wind.

But young Desires grow old and die,
And Hope no more the helm may steer;
Beneath a dark and stormy sky

Shall fall the late repentant tear.

While I, within my peaceful grot,
May hear the distant tempest roar,
Contented with my humble lot,
In safety on the friendly shore.

WHILE I behold the moon's pale beam,
Her light perhaps reflects on thee,
As wandering near the silver stream,
Thy sad remembrance turns to me.

Ah, to forget! the wish were vain!
Our souls were form'd thus fond to be;
No more I'll murmur and complain,
For thou, my Love, wilt think on me.

Silent and sad, I take my way,

As fortune deigns my bark to steer ;
Of hope a faint and distant ray
Our far-divided days shall cheer.

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