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TO DREAMS.

A SONNET.

BY MISS MARY JULIA YOUNG.

Hail, gentle spirits, who with magic wing,

Chase the dark clouds of sullen night away; And from her murky cave my freed soul bring,

To revel in the radiant beams of day.

What are you? say, or earthly, or divine,

Who thus can cheer the pause of dull repose ; With chemic art the dross of sleep refine,

And beauteous scenes to curtain'd eyes disclose ?

What are you, who, subduing time and space,

To bless these moments can a friend restore? I hear that voice-behold that form—that face,

And grateful own-your power can give no more. Hail, gentle spirits! to whose guardian care I owe suck bliss-yet know not what you are.

CRAZY JANE.

BY M. G, LEWIS, ESQ. M, P.

Occasioned by a Lady's being alarmed at a Mad Woman,

known by that appellation. Why, fair maid, in every feature,

Are such signs of fear express'd ?
Can a wandering, wretched creature,

With such terror fill thy breast?
Do my frenzied looks alarm thee?

Trust me, sweet-thy fears are vain,
Not for kingdoms would I harm thee;

Shun not then poor Crazy Jane.

Dost thou weep to see my anguish ?

Mark me! and avoid my woe;
When men flatter, sigh, and languish,

Think them false-I found them so:
For I loved-Oh so sincerely,

None could ever love again;
But the youth I loved so dearly,

Stole the wits of Crazy Jane.

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From For i A cre

Who

Fondly my young heart received him,

Which was doom'd to love but one;
He sigli’d, he vow'd, and I believed him,

He was falseand I undone.

The Let?

If so From that hour has Reason never

Held her empire o'er my brain;
Henry fled-with him for ever

Fled the wits of Crazy Jane.

Now forlorn and broken-hearted,

And with frenzied thoughts beset;
On that spot where last we parted,

On that spot where first we met,
Still I sing my love-lorn ditty,

Still I slowly pace the plain :
While each passer-by in pity

Cries-God help thee, Crazy Jane !

TO HIS FRIEND

INCLINED TO MARRY.

BY POMFRET.

I WOULD not have you, Strephon, choose a mate,
From too exalted, or too mean a state ;
For in both these we may expect to find,
A creeping spirit, or a laughty mind.
Who moves within the middle region shares
The least disquiets, and the smallest cares.
Let her extraction with true lustre shine,
If something brighter, not too bright for thine

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Her education liberal, not great;
Neither inferior, nor above her state.
Let her have wit, but let that wit be free
From affectation, pride, and pedantry;
For the effect of woman's wit is such,
Too little is as dangerous as too much.
But chiefly let her humour close with thine,
Uuless where yours' does to a fault incline:
The least disparity in this destroys,
Like sulpharous blasts, the very buds of joys.
Her person amiable, straight, and free
From natural and chance deformity :
Let not her years exceed, if equal, thine,
For women past their vigour soon decline.
Her fortune competent; and if thy sight
Can reach so far, take care 'tis gather'd right:
If thine's enough, then her’s may be the less;
Do not aspire to riches in excess-
For that which makes our lives delightful prove,
Is a genteel sufficiency and love.

THE FUNERAL PROCESSION.

BY BLAIR.

But see! the well-plumed hearse comes nodding on,
Stately and slow, and properly attended
By the whole sable tribe, that painful watch

The sick man's door, and live upon the dead,
By letting out their persons by the hour
To mimic sorrow, when the heart's not sad!
How rich the trappings, now they're all unfurl'd
And glittering in the sun! Triumphant entries
Of conquerors, and coronation pomps,
In glory scarce excced. Great gluts of people
Retard the unwieldy show; whilst from the casements
And houses' tops, ranks behind ranks close wedged
Hang bellying o'er. But tell us, why this waste?
Why this ado in earthing up a carcase
That's fallen into disgrace, and in the nostril
Smells horrible? Ye undertakers! tell us,
Midst all the gorgeous figures you exhibit,
Why is the principal conceald, for which
You make this mighty stir? 'Tis wisely done:
What would offend the eye in a good picture,
The painter casts discreetly into shades.

ELEGIAC STANZAS.

ON HEARING THE TOLLING OF A BELL,

BY THE REV. MR, RIVERS.

A PENSIVE sadness overwhelms my soul,

And fills my mind with melancholy dread;
For hark! I hear the solemn awful toll,

That leads my thoughts to contemplate the dead.

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