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And where contending atoms roar,
To join, 'midst endless joy, the adoring Seraph's

strain !
Yes, she was mild and lovely as the star,
That in the Western hemisphere afar,
Lifts its pure lamp above the mountain's head,
To light meek Evening to her dewy bed ;
And as the waning Moon displays,
With mirror clear, Morn's rising rays,
She, in decay, shew'd Virtues Orb refined,
Reflected fairer from her angel mind;
'Till at the last, too fierce a blaze was given,
And then she sunk from sight, and faded into

Heaven.
Yet do not mourn, be grief away,
For see how swift the dark clouds go;
Soon silence drinks the Linnet's lay,
And yonder sappbire waves shall cease to flow,
Scared by the hissing brand,
Of thirsty Summer's sultry hand.
From the lorn wood the leaves descend,
And all of Nature, as of Art must end.
Sad Consolation, true! yet why,
If soon must close the languid eye,
Since a short moment but remains,
For all our fears, and all our pains,

Why should we fondly brood on care,
Ah! why devote us to despair!
But Time assiduous loves to urge.
Our footsteps to his utmost verge,
Because that there a rapturous scene appears,
Where Anguish never throbs, nor Sorrow sinks in

tears.
Mean-while, forbear not to disclose,
The Scions of that beauteous Stem;
And though the Parent Rose,
Was prematurely lost,
By a remorseless frost;
O view the opening Buds, and smile at least for
them!

DELLA CRUSCA.

THOMAS BROWNE.

Yorkshire - 1771-1798.

The poems of this promising young man, were printed

after his death for the benefit of his family. Of the then selected pieces, the first has been chosen as one of his latest and best productions; the second for the singular

circumstances which occasioned it, and the last as Į a specimen of the Yorkshire Dialect.

THE BEGGAR,

THROUGH the fields, as I stray'd, when the skies

were serene, When the corn’s pendant ears wildly waved in

the breeze; When bustling at work the gay reapers were seen, And Pomona's rich bounties hung ripe on the

trees;

A poor Beggar I saw, as he sat on the ground; And I heard him oft sigh, and thus plaintively

speak, Whilst his eye sad survey'd the gay prospect

around, And pensive dejection sat pale on his cheek:

• Amidst the gay scenes now unfolded to sight,

• It is almost a crime to be heard to complain ; * But, alas ! can the bosom partake of delight, • That'struggles with want, and is tortured with

pain ? "From the door, where I craved but a morsel of

bread, • When spurn'd with rude taunts, I'm compelled

to depart; • When houseless I rove, even unblest with a shed, • How can pleasure admittance obtain to my

heart?

. From Nature's great Parent the bounties that

flow, •One would think, should awaken the kindness

of man, Like him out of plenty a part to bestow, And give to the wretched the pittance he can.

• There was once, when the blessings of fortune

were mine, · When hope bade me count certain bliss as my

lot; When the soul of the wanderer could not repine,

Who entreated an alms at the door of my cot.

• But, alas ! stern misfortune's rude hand has now

torn • From my heart, every joy made it pleasure to

live ; * And hopeless, abandon’d, I wander forlorn,

*To request the relief I exulted to give.'

Ah me! and I heard him thus pensively wail,

And I past, as it seem'd quite regardlessly by, As the Beggar repeated his sorrowful tale,

Yes a tear—a soft tear gently stole from my eye.

From thy look, from the language of looks I

believe, Thou didst think I was hard, and unfeeling,

I know; But my heart yes, my heart deeply sigh’d to re

lieve What I had not, poor Beggar, I could not be

stow.

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