When I talk'd, I have seen her recline With an aspect so pensively sweet, Tho' I spoke what the shepherds opine, A fop were asham'd to repeat.

She is soft as the dew-drops that fall From the lip of the sweet-scented pea; Perhaps, when she smil'd upon all,

I have thought that she smil'd upon me.

But why of her charms should I tell?

Ah me! whom her charms have undone ! Yet I love the reflexion too well, The painful reflexion to shun.

Ye souls of more delicate kind',

Who feast not on pleasure alone, Who wear the soft sense of the mind, To the sons of the world still unknown;

Ye know, tho' I cannot express,
Why I foolishly doat on my pain;
Nor will ye believe it the less

That I have not the skill to complain.

I lean on my hand with a sigh,

My friends the soft sadness condemn :Yet, methinks, tho' I cannot tell why, I should hate to be merry like them.

When I walk'd in the pride of the dawn, Methought all the region look'd bright, Has sweetness forsaken the lawn?

For, methinks, I grow sad at the sight.

When I stood by the stream, I have thought There was mirth in the gurgling soft sound; But now 'tis a sorrowful note,

And the banks are all gloomy around!

I have laugh'd at the jest of a friend;
Now they laugh and I know not the cause
Tho' I seem with my looks to attend,
How silly! I ask what it was!

They sing the sweet song of the May,
They sing it with mirth and with glee;
Sure I once thought the sonnet was gay,
But now 'tis all sadness to me.

Oh give me the dubious light

That gleams thro' the quivering shade; Oh! give me the horrors of night

By gloom and by silence array'd!

Let me walk where the soft-rising wave
Has pictur'd the moon on its breast:
Let me walk where the new-cover'd grave
Allows the pale lover to rest!

When shall I in its peaceable womb
Be laid with my sorrows asleep!
Should LAVINIA but chance on my tomb-
I could die if I thought she would weep.

Perhaps, if the souls of the just

Revisit these mansions of care,

It may be my favourite trust

To watch o'er the fate of the fair.

Perhaps, the soft thought of her breast
With rapture more favour'd to warm;
Perhaps, if with Sorrow oppress'd,
Her sorrow with patience to arm,

Then! then in the tenderest part
May I whisper, « Poor COLIN was true; »
And mark if a leave of her heart
The thought of her COLIN pursue.

РН Е В Е.

A PASTORA L.

BY BYRON.

My time, o ye Muses! was happily spent, When Phoebe went with me wherever I went : Ten thousand soft pleasures I felt in my breast: Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest. But now she is gone, and has left me behind, What a marvellous change on a sudden I find! When things were as fine as could possibly be, I thought it was spring; but, alas! it was she.

The fountain that wont to run sweetly along, And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among, Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phoebe was there, It was pleasant to look at, 'twas music to hear. But now she is absent, I walk by its side, And, still as it murmurs, do nothing but chide:

Must you be so cheerful, whilst I go in pain? Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me complain.

My dog I was ever well pleased to see,

Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me; And Phoebe was pleas'd too, and to my dog said, Come hither, poor fellow; » and patted his head. But now, when he's fawning, I with a sour look Cry, « Sirrah,» and give him a blow with my crook :

And I'll give him another; for why should not

Tray.

Be dull as his master, when Phoebe's away?

Sweet music went with us both all the wood

thro',

The lark, linnet, throstle, and the nightingale too; Winds over us whisper'd, flocks by us did bleat, And chirp went the grasshopper under our feet. But now she is absent, tho' still they sing on, The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone: Her voice in the concert, as now I have found, Gives every thing else its agreeable sound.

Will not pitying power that hears me complain, Or cure my disquiet, or soften my pain?

To be cur'd, thou must, Colin, thy passion re

move:

But what swain is so silly to live without love?
No, Deity, bid the dear Nymph to return;
For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn.
Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with despair:
Take heed, all ye swains, how ye love one so fair.

THE SEAMAN'S SUFFERINGS.

You gentlemen of England

That live at home at ease,
Ah, little do you think upon
The dangers of the seas;
Give ear unto the mariners,
And they will plainly shew
All the cares, and the fears

When the stormy winds do blow.

All you that will be seamen,
Must bear a valiant heart,
For when you come upon the seas
You must not think to start;

Nor once to be faint-hearted,

In hail, rain, blow, or snow,

Nor to think for to shrink

When the stormy winds do blow.

The bitter storms and tempests

Poor seamen do endure,

Both day and night, with many a fright,

We seldom rest secure ;

Our sleep it is disturbed

With visions strange to know

And with dreams on the streams,

When the stormy winds do blow.