ON READING

"THE SORROWS OF WERTER."

THY Soft-wrought sorrows, Werter, while I view,
Why falls not o'er the page soft Pity's dew?
Is there no tear for thy unhappy lot?
Is tenderness no more, and love forgot?
Chill'd is my breast by fifty winters snow?
And dead the touch of sympathetic woe?
No!-o'er this bosom, fifty winters old,
Love, wedded Love, still points his shafts of gold;
Still moves his purple wings, and o'er my urn
With brightest rays his constant lamp shall burn.
Not so thy torch of Love-in angry mood
By furies lighted, and put out in blood:
From the black deed affrighted pity flew,
And horror check'd the tear thy suff'rings drew.
While from the gloomy page I learn'd to know
That virtuous tears alone for virtuous sorrows flow.

Ibid.

AN EXPOSTULATION.

WHEN late I attempted your pity to move
Why seem'd you so deaf to my pray'rs ?
Perhaps it was right to dissemble your love-
But-Why did you kick me down stairs?

VERSES

Written on the blank leaf of a book in which a Lady had made a Selection of Poems.

WHILST health and youth lead on the sprightly hours,

How sweet through fancy's flowery fields to stray, Catch the wild notes inventive genius pours, And stamp on lasting leaves the genuine lay!

Nor think those hours to trivial cares consign'd
Thou with the fav'ring muses may'st employ;
'Tis they who harmonize the youthful mind,
And open ev'ry avenue to joy:

Bid the freed soul the grov'ling crew despise,
Whom humbler hopes of pow'r or riches move;

Bid the freed soul to nobler prospects rise,
To fancy, friendship, harmony, and love.

V.

INSCRIPTION ON A HERMITAGE In one of the Islands of the West Indies.

WITHIN this rural cot I rest,
With solitude to calm my breast;
And while beneath th' umbrageous bow'r
Content beguiles each roseate hour,
And while with Anna oft I rove,

Soft friendship's mutual sweets to prove,
I scorn the
pageants of the great,

Nor envy pow'r and empty state.

No thoughtless mortals here invade The sacred limits of this glade; No busy footsteps here are seen To print the flow'r-enamell'd green; But, far remov'd from pomp and noise, No care my happiness destroys; Save when the lov'd idea reigns Of distant Albion's blissful plains, Far, far remov'd, perhaps no more Destin'd to hail my natal shore : (Perhaps, Horatio, thy dear form No more these languid eyes may charm, No more this faithful bosom warm!)

Here, safe in this sequester'd vale, The stock-doves pour their tender tale; Here too the peaceful halcyons rest, And weave secure their quiet nest; Or sportive now, on azure wing, Flutter in many an aëry ring; Expanding, gorgeous, as they fly, Their saphire plumage to the sky.

Soon as Aurora wakes the dawn,
I press with nimble feet the lawn,
Eager to deck the fav'rite bow'r
With ev'ry op'ning bud and flow'r,
Explore each shrub and balmy sweet
To scatter o'er my mossy seat,
And teach around in wreaths to stray
The rich pomegranate's pliant spray.

At noon, reclin'd in yonder glade, Panting beneath the tam'rind's shade, Or where the palm-tree's nodding head Guards from the sun my verdant bed, I quaff, to slake my thirsty soul, The cocoa's full nectareous bowl.

At eve, beneath some spreading tree

I read the inspir'd poesy

Of Milton, Pope, or Spencer mild,

And Shakespeare, fancy's brightest child:

To tender Sterne I lend an ear,
Or drop o'er Heloise the tear;
Sometimes with Anna tune the lay,
And close in song the cheerful day.

'Tis thus the circling year is spent
In harmony and sweet content,
And when (should fortune so ordain)
I view my native realms again,
I'll ne'er forget the tranquil hours
I spent in India's spicy bow'rs,
Nor e'en prefer the world's great stage
To this sequester'd Hermitage.

Maria Riddell, aged 16.

ODE TO A FOUNTAIN.

SEQUESTER'D Fountain, ever pure,

Whose smooth meand'ring rill
In gentle murmurs glides obscure
Beneath thy parent hill;

Tir'd with ambition's fruitless strife,
I quit the stormy scenes of life

To shape my course by thine,
And pleas'd, from serious trifles turn,
While thus around thy little urn

A votive wreath I twine.