Stranger, curious, would'st thou learn
Why she mourns her wasted urn?
Soon a short and simple verse
Shall her hapless fate rehearse:

Ere yon neighb'ring spires arose,
That the upland prospect close;
Or ere along the startled shore
Echo'd loud the cannons roar;

Once the maid, in Summer's heat,
Careless left her cool retreat,
And, by sultry suns opprest,
Laid her weary limbs to rest;

Forgetful of her daily toil,

To trace each tract of humid soil;
From dews and bounteous show'rs to bring
The limpid treasures of her spring:

Enfeebled by the scorching ray,
She slept the sultry hours away;
And, when she op'd her languid eye,
Found her silver urn was dry.

Heedless stranger, who so long
Hast listen'd to an idle song,
Whilst trifles thus thy notice share,
Hast thou no urn that asks thy care?

Roscoe.

LADY CARLISLE'S ANSWER

TO MRS. GREVILLE'S "ODE TO INDIFFERENCE."

Is that your wish, to lose all sense

In dull lethargic ease,

And, wrapt in cold indifference,
But half be pleas'd, or please?

If dictated by deep despair,
You all our pity claim;

If not, 'tis sure the strangest wish
That woman e'er did frame.

Who can decide 'twixt you and me?
There's no disputing taste:

But this I know, we disagree
As wide as east from west.

Inferior far my power to please,
If all I've heard be true;

Yet beats my heart for more than ease,
And cannot pray with you.

It never shall be my desire,

To bear a heart unmov'd,

To feel by halves the gen'rous fire,

Or be but half belov❜d.

Let me drink deep the dang'rous cup,
In hopes the prize to gain,
Nor tamely give the pleasure up,
For fear to share the pain.

If languid ease they cannot know,
Who have not hearts of steel;
Yet height of bliss, as well as woe,
They must alternate feel.

This the partition made by fate:
Oh! take them both together;
And know that, in this chequer'd state,
The one is worth the other.

Give me, whatever I possess,

To know, and feel it all,

When youth and love no more can bless, Let death obey my call.

Or turn my senses then to stone:
Let cold indiff'rence live;

But bring her not till youth is flown,
And all that love can give.

Too soon, alas! that torpid state
Benumbing age will bring:

I would not rashly tempt my fate,
. To blast the present spring.

SONG.

I've roam'd thro' many a wearied round,
And wander'd east and west,
Pleasure in ev'ry clime I found,
But sought in vain for rest.

While glory sighs for other spheres,
I feel that one's too wide,

And this, a home which love endears,
Were worth the world beside.

The needle thus too rudely mov'd,
Wanders, unconscious where,

Till, having found the place it lov'd,
It, trembling, settles there.

MS.

EPIGRAM.

No wonder that Oxford and Cambridge profound
In learning and science so greatly abound,
When all carry thither a little each day,
And we meet with so few who bring it away.

Anonymous.

ODE TO LEVEN WATER.

ON Leven's banks, while free to rove,
And tune the rural pipe to love,
I envy'd not the happiest swain
That ever trod th' Arcadian plain.

Pure stream! in whose transparent wave My youthful limbs I wont to lave; No torrents stain thy limpid source, No rocks impede thy dimpling course, That sweetly warbles o'er its bed, With white, round, polish'd pebbles spread; While, lightly pois'd, the scaly brood In myriads cleave the crystal flood: The springing trout, in speckled pride; The salmon, monarch of the tide; The ruthless pike, intent on war; The silver eel, and mottled par. Devolving from thy parent lake, A charming maze thy waters make, By bow'rs of birch, and groves of pine, And hedges flower'd with eglantine.

Still on thy banks, so gaily green, May num'rous herds and flocks be seen; And lasses chaunting o'er the pail; And shepherds piping in the dale;