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One generons swain her heart approved,
A youth, whose fond and faithful breast,
With many an artless sigh confest,
But Stranger, 'tis no tale for thee, .
He died—and soon her lip was cold,
And soon her rosy lip was pale,
The village wept to hear the tale
Beneath yon flowery turf they lie,
Yet one boon have I to crave;
Stranger, if thy pity bleed,
Wilt thou do one tender deed,
So lightly lie the turf on thee,
Ode to the River Eden.
Delightful Eden! parent stream,
Yet shall the maids of Memory say, When, led by Fancy's fairy dream,
My young steps traced thy winding way: How oft along thy mazy shore, Where slowly waved the willows hoar,
In pensive thought their poet stray'd; Or, dozing near thy meadow'd side, Beheld thy dimply waters glide,
Bright thro' the trembling shade.
Yet shall they paint those scenes again,
Where once with infant-joy he play'd, And bending o'er thy liquid plain,
The azure worlds below survey'd; Led by the rosy-handed hours, When Time trip'd o'er that bank of flowers,
Which in thy crystal bosom smiled! Tho' old the God, yet light and gay, He flung his glass, his scythe away,
And seem'd himself, a child.
The poplar tall, that waving near
Would whisper to thy mormurs free ;
And trembles when I sigh for thee.
Burnish their green locks in the sun;
In airy circles run.
But Fancy, can thy mimick power,
Again those happy moments bring? Canst thou restore that golden hour,
When young Joy waved his laughing wing?
The vow sincere, devoid of guile!
And look'd as angels smile.
O Goddess of the crystal brow,
That dwells't the golden meads among ; Whose streams still fair in memory flow, Whose murmurs melodize my song!
0! yet those gleams of joy display, Which brightening glow'd in Fancy's ray
When, near thy lucid urn reclined, The Dryad, Nature, bared her breast, And left, in naked charms imprest,
Her image on my mind.
In vain--the maids of Memory fair
No more in golden visions play;
No Delia's smile approves my lay.
And in thy breast this mortal find; . That life, tho' stain'd with sorrow's showers, Shall flow serene, while Virtue pours
Her sunshine on the mind.
Kenrick's memory will be perpetuated by the slight meri
tion which Goldsmith makes of him in his Poem of « RETALIATION,” his own efforts were not the best directed for the accomplishment of that purpose ; for he lived in a state of warfare, and died unregretted by his contemporaries,
The Force of Prejudices
Once on a time, or story lies,