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The smile re-animates my heart;
Remembrance gives its welcome aid : Then mine, and mine alone, thou art; But soon the phantom-pleasures fade!
The smile is fled-the sudden beam
Oh! would Futurity unveil
What must be, to my mental eye;
Again to meet thee; then to love
Again to hear my syren sing
This will I hope; yet, self-deceiving,
Still is thy dear resemblance mine :
I yet possess thee-though forsook ;—
Forsook by her who loved me more,
As once I thought than words can tell; In Spenser's verse we learn'd love's lore,
And thou wert then my Florimel.
This cheat of fancy long beguiled
To hear two lovers hymn his praise.
And then Cleopolis on earth
And oft applauded valour's worth,
As knights with savage giants fought :
Enough of this; my care-worn mind
Less happy thoughts must now engage! Mine own dear love I cannot find; Can fabled loves my grief assuage ?
THE DEATH OF HOSSEIN.
The affecting narration of the death of Hossein, the grandson of Mahomet, may be read it is, indeed, a pleasure to read it,) in Gibbon's “ Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire," vol. v. page 268, quarto edition.
THE Fatimites wearied, yet fearless oppose,
Though thinn'd in their numbers, their multiplied foes; With despair in their looks, how they rage o'er the field! Though broken, their triumph is never to yield !
Their sabres well-flesh'd, still gleam in the air,
But one yet remains. On, boasters! and slay
Though his heart inly bleeds for the brave ones he loved.
Near his tent he awaits the sad signal, and see
O! spare him ye murderers, childless, alone
He bends o'er the lifeless, their death-knell his
The damp sweat commingling with blood on his brow!
Still merciless! on, ye brave monsters! imbrue
Invites the destroyer to hasten its fall :—
The warrior is dying! what spirit appears
To rush from his tent ?-'tis his sister in tears! "Yet save him—my brother-look, look how he bleeds! "Oh, Shamar!"-in vain the fair suppliant pleads!
He is slain!-but the Moslems yet cherish his fame,
THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.
WELL might the comic Muse, with drooping head,
O, could the Muse's skill but match her zeal,
Each word with plaintive sweetness charm'd the ear,
Where is the mourner now, whose bosom bled
The characters our young Menander drew :