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Albion, foon thy poets free
Here genial freedom fix'd her seat,
Refulgent near her sacred thronc,
And scatter'd plenty o'er the land:
ODE TO THE RIVER CAM.
BY MR. GEORGE DYER.
[From the Annual Anthology for 1799.)
While yon ruftic whiftles gay, On thy hanks, oh! Cam, I lie,
Museful pour the pensive lay.
Suits too well the thoughtful breaft;
Sorrow here might figh to ref.
Beauteous Julia, thou art laid ; I could linger through the night
Still to mourn thee, lovely maid! In yon garden fancy reads
« Sophron ftrays no longer here," Then again my bosom bleeds :
Then I drop the filent tear.
Hoary Cam, Real Now along :
Near yon desolated grove Sleep the partners of my tong,
There with them I wont to rove. He, the youth of fairest fame,
Haften’d to an early tombFriendship shall record his naine,
Pity mourn his hapless doom.
There's another spirit filed!
Philo flumbers with the dead,
Shakespeare's name to him was dear; Kind and gentle was his heart,
Now again I drop a tear. Bending sad beside thy Itream,
While I heave the frequent sigh, Do thy rippling waters gleam,
Sympathetic murm’ring by? Then, oh! Cam, will I return,
Hail thy soothing stream again, And as viewing Julia's urn,
Grateful bless thee in my strain. Still there are, who raptur’d view
Scenes, which youthful hopes endear; Here they science still can woo,
Still they love to wander here. Peace they meet in every grove ;
Lives again the rapturous song ; Sweetly sportive still they rove,
Cam! thy sedgy banks along. Stately streams, and glens, and lakes,
They can leave to Scutia's plains, Mountains hoar, and vales, and brakes,
They resign to Cambrian swains. But these placid scenes full well
Suit the quiet mufing breast; Here, if fancy may not dwell,
Science shall delight to reit,
VALM'D is the roaring of the billowy main
The orient beams--the stormy clouds are Aed, Zephyrus woos the blue-ey'd Naiads again,
The growling north-east seeks his cavy bed. Freed by the potent sun's enliv’ning ray,
Fair nature pleas’d, with animation smiles;
With tasteful tand laboriously she toils.
The purple violets grateful odours thed,
And modest daisies ornament the mead. The garden now its flow'ry pride displays,
In robe imperial, shines the crocus fair,
The beauteous hyacinth perfumes the air.
What various hues and blossoms charm the eye! The hawthorn blooms, the copse is clad with green,
The shadowy grove resounds with harmony. Their matin hymns the larks now sing with glee,
If day's bright regent does the sky illume; And sweet the murmur of the busy bee,
That sucks the honey from the orchard's bloom. High on the breezy downs, and on the plains,
Innumerous lambkins sport, and bleat their joy ; Wildly melodious pipe the shepherd (wains,
And spring's gay jubilee meets no alloy. Way'd by the gale there embryo harvests grow,
And ev'ry verdant blade is burnish'd high, The glitt'ring rivers murmur as they flow,
Serene and cloudless is the azure sky.
The silent shade reflection now may seek,
And muse on actions past with pure delight, As memory pictures decds of childhood meek,
Or manhoud's firmness in the paths of right. And mad ambition, whose ferocious breast Throb’d with wild joy, when conquest crown’d his
arms, Amidst these tranquil scenes may love to rest,
And be enamour'd of fair virtue's charms.
Unveil'd may wander peaceful thro' the grove :
BY MRS. ROBINSON.
A or sinow;
H! cold neglect-more chilling far
Sure born beneath a luckless star
To fill his bitter cup of woe,
Is deftiu'd thee to know.
All that can lift the glowing mind,
A soul where virtue dwells enshrin'd,
A prey to thee we find !
The flowers of fancy bud around,
Nor own that sorrow's shaft can wound,
Ah! then how sad the world appears!
How false, how idle are the gay! Morn only breaks to witness tears, And ev’ning closes but to shew That darkness mimics human woe,
And life's best scene; a summer's day
That shines and fades away.
Some visionary torments see;
But whatsoe'er my fate may be,
Oh! keep neglect from me!
Directed by the moon-light ray,
And oft the sacred tribute pay
Sol withdraws his scorching lay :