IV. ST. IRVYNE'S TOWER How swiftly through heaven's wide expanse Bright day's resplendent colours fade! How sweetly does the moonbeam's glance With silver tint St. Irvyne's glade! II No cloud along the spangled air, Is borne upon the evening breeze; How solemn is the scene! how fair The moonbeams rest upon the trees! III Yon dark gray turret glimmers white, IV But not alone on Irvyne's tower, As enanguish'd he turns from the laugh of the scorner, And drops, to perfection's remembrance, a tear; When floods of despair down his pale cheek are streaming, When no blissful hope on his bosom is beaming, Or, if lull'd for awhile, soon he starts from his dreaming, And finds torn the soft ties to affection so dear. II Ah! when shall day dawn on the night of the grave, Or summer succeed to the winter of death? Rest awhile, hapless victim, and Heaven will save The spirit, that faded away with the breath. Eternity points in its amaranth bower, Where no clouds of fate o'er the sweet prospect lower, The silver moonbeam pours her ray; Unspeakable pleasure, of goodness the It gleams upon the ivied bower, It dances in the cascade's spray. V "Ah! why do dark'ning shades conceal Why may not human minds unveil VI "The keenness of the world hath torn The heart which opens to its blast ; Despis'd, neglected, and forlorn, Sinks the wretch in death at last." V.-BEREAVEMENT I dower, When woe fades away like the mist of the heath. VI. THE DROWNED LOVER I AH! faint are her limbs, and her foot step is weary, Yet far must the desolate wanderer roam; Though the tempest is stern, and the mountain is dreary, She must quit at deep midnight her pitiless home. I see her swift foot dash the dew from the whortle, As she rapidly hastes to the green grove of myrtle; How stern are the woes of the desolate And I hear, as she wraps round her truding them on the public notice. The High swell'd in her bosom the throb of first I found with no title, and have left it affection, As lightly her form bounded over the lea, And arose in her mind every dear recol lection; "I come, dearest Henry, and wait but for thee." How sad, when dear hope every sorrow is soothing, When sympathy's swell the soft bosom is moving, And the mind the mild joys of affection is proving, Is the stern voice of fate that bids happiness flee! that And the moon dimly gleam'd through the tempested air; Oh! how could fond visions such soft- Oh! how could false hope rend a Thy love's pallid corse the wild surges O'er his form the fierce swell of the tempest is raving; But, fear not, parting spirit; thy good- In eternity's bowers, a seat for thee POSTHUMOUS FRAGMENTS OF MARGARET NICHOLSON Being Poems found amongst the Papers of that noted Female who attempted the life of the King in 1786. Edited by John Fitzvictor. ADVERTISEMENT THE energy and native genius of these Fragments must be the only apology which the Editor can make for thus in So. It is intimately connected with the dearest interests of universal happiness; and much as we may deplore the fatal and enthusiastic tendency which the ideas of this poor female had acquired, we cannot fail to pay the tribute of unequivocal regret to the departed memory of genius, which, had it been rightly organised, would have made that intellect, which has since become the victim of frenzy and despair, a most brilliant ornament to society. In case the sale of these Fragments evinces that the public have any curiosity to be presented with a more copious collection of my unfortunate Aunt's poems, I have other papers in my possession which shall, in that case, be subjected to their notice. It may be supposed they require much arrangement; but I send the following to the press in the same state in which they came into my posJ. F. session. POSTHUMOUS FRAGMENTS AMBITION, power, and avarice, now have hurl'd Death, fate, and ruin, on a bleeding world. See! on yon heath what countless victims lie, Hark! what loud shrieks ascend thro' yonder sky; Tell then the cause, 'tis sure the avenger's rage Has swept these myriads from life's He shudders in death's latest agonies; Yet does his parting breath essay to speak For "Oh God! my wife, my children— Monarch thou whose support this fainting frame lies low; For whose support in distant lands IAh! when will come the sacred f Let his friends' welfare be the warrior's When man unsullied by his kaz To thee, then, mighty God, I lift my Ah! when will come the time, wher o'er the plain moan, Thou wilt not scorn a suppliant's No more shall death and desolati anguish'd groan. reign? Oh! now I die-but still is death's When will the sun smile on the bloodless field, fierce pain meet again.' God hears my prayer-we meet, we And the stern warrior's arm the sickk wield? He spake, reclin'd him on death's Not whilst some King, in cold ambition's bloody bed, And with a parting groan his spirit fled. dreams, Plans for the field of death his plodding schemes; Not whilst for private pique the pullic fall, For you how many a mother weeps her And one frail mortal's mandate governs all. son, Snatch'd from life's course ere half his Swell'd with command and mad with race was run! For you how many a widow drops a tear, In silent anguish, on her husband's bier! Careless who lives or dies-so that he gains “Is it then thine, Almighty Power," Some trivial point for which he took "Whence tears of endless sorrow dim What then are Kings?-I see the these eyes? Is this the system which thy powerful sway, Which else in shapeless chaos sleeping lay, Form'd and approv'd?-it cannot be but oh! Forgive me Heaven, my brain is warp'd by woe." 'Tis not he never bade the war-note swell, trembling crowd, I hear their fulsome clamours echoed loud; Their stern oppressor pleas'd appears awhile, But April's sunshine is a Monarch's smile Kings are but dust-the last eventful day sway; Will dash the sceptre from the Monarch's hand, He never triumph'd in the work of hell- deed, Thine are the crimes for which thy subjects bleed. ensanguin'd brand. Oh! Peace, soft peace, art thou for ever gone, Is thy fair form indeed for ever flown? And love and concord hast thou swept away, As if incongruous with thy parted sway? Alas I fear thou hast, for none appear. Now o'er the palsied earth stalks giant Fear, With War, and Woe, and Terror, in his train; Dank lurid meteors shoot a livid gleam; From the dark storm-clouds flashes a fearful glare, It shows the bending oak, the roaring stream. I ponder'd on the woes of lost mankind, I ponder'd on the ceaseless rage of Kings; List'ning he pauses on the embattled My rapt soul dwelt upon the ties that See! gory Ruin yokes his blood-stain’d | I heard a yell—it was not the knell, When the blasts on the wild lake sleep, car, He scents the battle's carnage from afar ; Hell and destruction mark his mad career, That floats on the pause of the summer Fainter and fainter, yet is borne around, Yet to enthusiast ears the murmurs tell That heaven, indignant at the work of hell, Will soon the cause, the hated cause remove, That bade me recline on the shore; I laid mine hot head on the surge-beaten mould, And thought to breathe no more. But a heavenly sleep In balm my bosom's pain, And free from control, Did mine intellect range again. Methought enthron'd upon a silvery cloud, Which floated 'mid a strange and brilliant light; Which tears from earth peace, innocence, My form upborne by viewless ether and love. FRAGMENT SUPPOSED TO BE AN EPITHALAMIUM OF FRANCIS RAVAILLAC AND CHARLOTTE CORDÉ What beauteous spirits met my dazzled eye! 'Tis midnight now-athwart the murky Hark! louder swells the music of the |