DISAPPOINTMENT,

IMITATION OF MODERN POETRY.

NOT a breeze crisp'd the leaves of the bow'r,
Not a murmur was heard through the air,
As with twilight approach'd the blest hour
Love had fixed for a sight of my fair.
Expectation had flush'd every nerve,
While on tiptoe I listen'd around,
Not a soul could my glances observe,
Not a footstep was heard on the ground,

Every object now faded from sight,

While my thoughts were still fix'd on my love,
O'er my fancy they beam'd such a light,
That I mark'd not the darkness above.

How my heart beat its cell in my breast,
As the form of a female I spied,
Till in rapture to feel myself blest,
I resolved for a moment to hide.
Then I heard how she eagerly sought,
To discover the nook where I lay,
Till I felt so transported, I thought
Her desires were increased by delay.

Round the bow'r she repeatedly mov'd,
Like an angel that fancy creates,

When I rushed and exclaimed-" My beloved!"

And it hoarsely replied "Supper waits."

A. B. F.

IMITATION OF MARTIAL.

PR'YTHEE, toast-master, order more liquor,
And tip the brisk waiter a wink:
Let the bumpers pass quicker and quicker,
Nor ask us how many we'll drink.

'Twere as likely by drops we'd be able
To measure the punch we consume;
All the walnut-shells count on the table,
Or number the flies in the room.

How many? we'll match with libations,
Compute them as high as you may,

All the clappings and vociferations

For "God save the King," at the play.

Counted bumpers seem grudg'd, like a penny
Reluctantly paid by a Jew:

Honest lad, never think of how many,
But limit and welcome how few.

N. B. HALHED, ESQ.

ODE,

FROM ANACREON.

COME, thou best of painters, come!
Master of the Rhodian art,
While mem'ry with her image glows,
Paint the mistress of my heart.

First her glossy ringlets trace:

-Paint them soft, and black as jet;

And, if such thy mimic power,

Paint them breathing every sweet,

From the full luxuriant cheek,
Peeping thro' her dusky hair,
Let the ivory forehead rise

Brightly-glittering, smooth, and fair.

Her eye-brows trace with steadiest hand; With care the graceful arch design;

Part not the bewitching curves,

Nor yet unite the waving line.

Shaded by a jetty lid,

Paint me next her eye of fire,
Sparkling bright with rays of sense,
Melting too with soft desire.

Roses blend with whitest milk-
Tint her lovely cheeks with this;
And her soft persuasive lips
Challenging the luscious kiss.

Round her alabaster neck
Let the wanton graces play;
Shade, with a robe of purple dye,
The brighter charms that shun the day.

But gently thro' the careless folds

Let the snowy bosom break:

-Enough! 'tis she! I own thy power;
It breathes-it livesit soon will speak!

DEAR Chloe, let not pride devour
That little, vain, affected heart;
Because I said the sweetest flower

Ne'er breath'd the sweets thy lips impart.

Nor spoil thy face with airs so silly,
Nor point those lovely eyes with scorn;
Because I swore the rose and lily

Ne'er gave such beauties to the morn.

Yes! thou art like-so like the flower,

Its warning fate should fill with sorrow; The blooming plaything of an hour,

But pluckt-and torn-and dead to-morrow.

S. W.

ODE,

Performed in the Senate-House at Cambridge, June 29, 1811, at the Installation of his Royal Highness, William Frederick Duke of Gloucester and Edinburgh, Chancellor of the University.

BY PROFESSOR SMITH.

RECITATIVE.

THOU, from thy realms of brighter day,
Thou, the bard, whose matchless lay
Once gave to deathless fame thy Fitzroy's praise;
Now, when again the festive pomp we lead,
Oh yet receive, for 'tis the poet's meed,

The earthly homage, which the heart would raise ;
The fond, warm sigh, that would to life restore

The genius loved and mourned, that must return no

more.

AIR.

O thou lost Master of the British Shell!
Pleased, in the calm of academic bowers,
To win the spoils of meditative hours,
And, from thy studious cell,

See thy loved arts, and Virtue's gentle train,
Wide round the world securely reign;
Alas! how is that world defiled,

How changed each scene that peaceful smiled,
Since in this crowded dome thy skill divine
Did laurel-wreaths round Granta's sceptre twine.

CHORUS.

-What countless Forms, with frantic mien,
Have flitted o'er yon darkened scene→
They come-they rage-they disappear-
The storm is woe-the pause is fear-