THE

MAID OF THE WOODBINE VALE.

COME listen, dear ladies, I'll tell you a tale,

And the dear girl that taught me, she told me 'twas true,

Of a sweet little maiden who lived in a vale

Where the wild flowers blossom'd, and woodbines grew.

This maiden was poor, but tho' lowly her lot,
No vision of care ever clouded her breast;
For how could unhappiness come to a cot

Where Innocence dwelt, and Content was a guest. But tho' cares of her own never caused her to weep, Yet a tale of affliction could teach her to grieve, And the sigh on her lip, and the tear on her cheek, Were for sorrows she pitied, but could not relieve. When a sweet little boy to her cottage there came, And with tales of soft sorrow her bosom beguiled; He told of his griefs, but he told not his name,

So simple the maiden, so artful the child.

He said, that the world he had fled was unkind,
(And the tears on his cheek were like dew on the rose)
But in this blessed cottage, he said, I could find
A home for my sorrows, and balm for my woes.

And she, simple maiden, the infant believed,
His tears and his pleadings had melted her breast;
And into the cottage the stranger received,

Where Innocence dwelt, and Content was a guest.
And need I to tell you this stranger was Love,
Ah! why did her door to the traitor unclose;
But how could she dream so ungrateful he'd prove,
As to torture the heart that had pitied his woes?
But never the rose on her cheek blossom'd more!
And visions of sorrow soon clouded her breast,
For the moment, to Love she had open'd the door,
Content had for ever forsaken its nest!

WHISTON BRISTOW.

TO A FRIEND.

SOFT

pass thy hours with life's best blessings fraught, The sweets of friendship and the powers of thought, Health, peace, contentment, mark each closing day, All calmly bright, and innocently gay!

Far distant be the hour ordain'd by fate
Which bears thy virtues to a nobler state;
Avert from me kind heaven! the task to mourn,
To bend in sorrow o'er thy sacred urn!
Translate me earliest to some kindred sky,
And bid the friend I love forbear to sigh.

EDINBURGH.

CLARINDA,

MARCH 4, 1813.

MARCH! how mild thy genial hours,
Soft azure skies, and gilded showers,
The blaze of lights, the deepening shade,
Tints that flush the cloud and fade;
Now the young wheat's transient gleam,
Where sunfits, chasing shadows, stream;
Now, in quick effulgence seen,

On yonder slope its sparkling green ;
And, sprinkled o'er the mossy mould,
Crocuses, like drops of gold;

And the lent-lily's paler yellow

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Where flowers the asp and water-willow;

And the polyanthus, fair

Its hues, as bath'd in summer air';

And the white violets, that just peep,
And, shelter'd by the rosemary, sleep;
Bursting lilacs, and beneath

Current-buds, that freshly breathe

The first spring-scent, light gooseberry leaves With which the obtrusive ivy weaves

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Its verdure dark (this day, tho' late
Cut off, to meet a cruel fate)
The cherry, too, that purpling glows,
And, full of leaf, the hedge-row rose;
On this south-wall, the peach-bloom pale,
Where huddles many a clustering snail;
And, round the trunk of yon hoar tree,
Here and there, a humming bee

That wanders to the sunny nook,
Or seeks, hard by, the glittering brook;
The blackbird's trill, and every lay
That warbling wild love, dies away;
And on each ash and elm's grey crest,
Cawing rooks, that frame the nest
Anew, or with parental care
Their cradles worn by time repair;
And lambs that o'er the meadow, brisk
Tug at the teat, and run and frisk;
These, this moment, meet my eyes,
Or my charmed ear surprise
Sounds that melt, and sights that seem
To wave o'er winter like a dream.

YET, ere in recent brightness born,
The moon shall fill each silver horn,
Clear as now we hail its rays

Where evening's crimson vest decays;
Yet shall thy storm, impetuous March!
In blackness shroud the ethereal arch,
Sweep those dewy meads serene,
And rifle all this garden-scene;
Yet, if shoot the vermeil peach,
Tawny-leav'd we mark the beech!
Yet, but yester-morn, was driven
Veiling the refulgent heaven,

What numerous starlings down the waste.
As when howl'd the embattled blast!
THEN, shall we not, my Phebe! seize
Fleeting pleasures, such as these?
Scar'd by winds and rushing rain,
Will Spring visit us again?

Are we sure, when floods subside,
This amber stream shall dimpling glide,

And again so softly steal
Thro' floral tufts, to yonder dale?
May not, where icebolts cease to beat,
The young blooms droop in summer-heat;
Scantier creep the languid rill,

And the vocal bowers be still?
Then, let us ravish, ere it fly,
Bliss so fugitive, so coy;

Muse on each colour's opening glow,
Trace the blossoms as they blow;
Listen to the choral grove,

And drink the soul of life and love;
And, every breathing zephyr greet,
Mingling talk with kisses sweet!
Shall we not, my Phebe! seize
Fleeting pleasures, such as these?

REV. R. POLWHELE.

IMPROMPTU,

ON MISS O'REILLY'S PICTURE, 1787.
BY EYLES IRWIN, ESQ.

WHEN, on the breast of ANTHONY, was seen
The pictur'd face of HEROD'S matchless queen,
Her jealous rival snatch'd the pencil's pride,
And, with her fears, consign'd it to the tide * !

But when with skill, less happy, were portray'd The brighter charms of ANVILLE'S blooming maid, Each nymph a compact from her swain would take, To keep the copy, but the life forsake!

* The anecdote of Cleopatra's jealousy of Mariamne, is to be found in Plutarch.