Thou woulds't not leave that Throne of Love,
The perils of the air to prove:

Thy EMMA, oh that I could say,

My EMMA's voice would bid thee stay;
Think not she'd loose thy wings, to try
The unknown dangers of the sky:

Yet, shouldst thou 'scape, her song would lure
Back to his cage her “ Tawny Moor *"

Back to his cage, that song to learn,
Her "Way-worn Traveller *" would return.

Too happy Bird, ah would she deign
To cast one smile, one look on me,
With pride, with joy, I'd bless the chain,
That told me I could ne'er be free!

Ah wouldst thou, perch'd beside her ear,
Reject the jealous doubts of fear;
Ah wouldst thou, her cold heart to move,
There whistle tender notes of love;
Then, if thy true, thy artless tale,
Can o'er her pitying breast prevail;
Would she, too happy Bird, to me,
Confide her care, her love for thee;
Thy cage unwearied would I tend,
Thy guardian, and thy constant friend.

Too happy Bird, ah swell thy throat,
Thy powers of soft persuasion raise,

To EMMA's ear attune the note,

1794.

And Love, kind Love, shall bless thy lays!

*Two Songs in "the Mountaineers," which the Lady was in the habit of playing.

WANDERING MARY.

BLEAK blows the storm upon that breast
Whose guest is life-consuming sorrow;
Oh take me to some place of rest,

Where I may slumber 'till to-morrow.
You view my face-it once was fair—
At least so said my charming Harry;
But he is gone-and black despair

Is all that's left to Wand'ring Mary!

Bright shone our blythesome bridal hour,
Love shook his wings with pleasure beaming;
But soon he left our little bow'r,

While I of bliss was fondly dreaming:
A soldier's coat allur'd my love,

I wept-I kneel'd—he would not tarry-
I pray'd him by the pow'rs above,
Not to desert his faithful Mary.

Alas! how shall I speak the rest,

The grief that's in my bosom burning? The cold clay clothes his bloody breast! And can you blame his Mary's mourning? Nor house, nor home, nor friend have I, Except this babe, my pledge of Harry; And famine dims his infant eye,

That us'd to glad the mournful Mary.

No thief am I, as some alledge,

Though sore hath cold and hunger try'd me; I pluck the haw-berry from the hedge, When human aid is oft denied me. But hush, my babe! though large the load Of woes that we are doom'd to carry, Within some cold grave's bleak abode, You'll sweetly sleep, with Wand'ring Mary!

CROWNS of oak and laurel bring,
Strew with branching palm the ways;
Tune your pipes, symphonious sing
Songs of triumph, songs of praise.

Hail the Chiefs, the Patriots hail,
Who their foes in arms affail,
And their native land to free,
Welcome death, or victory.

Children join a nation's voice,
Matrons blest, rejoice, rejoice;
Would you rich and happy be,
Welcome Peace and Liberty.

Crowns of oak and myrtle bring,
Strew with branching palm the ways;
To your pipes, symphonious sing

Songs of triumph, songs of praise.

*From the Corsicans, an unfinished Play, by C. Leftly, Esq.

ELEGY *.

ADDRESSED TO CORNET V

IN THE YEAR 1765.

(NOW GENERAL V—}

BY ANNA SEWARD.

ERE yet thou seek'st Ierne's jocund shore,
Pensive I weave this tributary lay;

Confess thy Julia must the fate deplore,
That soon shall lead thee o'er the watry way.

Ting'd with no blush, she boasts herself thy friend,
That gentle name, from dangerous wishes free!
Yet will no merit from the boast pretend,
For who, who would not be the friend of thee?

* This Elegy was written in the Author's early youth. A Friend lately told her, that she saw it in a Worcester Newspaper, some time back, and that it was there given as the composition of a Miss Te, then residing in that town. Its real author recollects having permitted Miss T's mother to take a copy of these stanzas. It is thus that the permission of transcript is often abused. A. S. 1802.

In the last volume this Elegy, from a part of the MS. being unfortunately mislaid, was printed in a mutilated manner: the last four stanzas were omitted. They were afterwards printed, and given to the purchasers of the volume; but as many persons may not have received them, the Editor thinks it an act of justice which he owes to Miss Seward to give to the Public a correct copy of the Elegy.

While youth, and bloom, and dignity combine,
All that can polish, all that can adorn,

To manly grace attempering softness join,
Life's noon-tide lustres in her orient morn;

While glows thy mind with Sense, and Fancy's boon,
While general praise selects thee for its theme,
Desert so high the coldest breast may own
Awakes and justifies its ow'd esteem.

Love's fairy visions, for a while are gay,
"A little, little while, when they are new;"
But soon the soft enchantment fades away,
Transient as summer morn's exhaling dew.

Then follow a long train of secret woes,
To faithless hope the varied pang succeeds;
The thorny pillow banishes repose;
The wounded heart inevitably bleeds.

Yes, bleed it must, and bleed at every vein,
When the pale brood, of disappointment born,
Attendants oft on Love's tyrannic reign,
Leave the lost Maid her living death to mourn.

If my presaging soul aright divine,
Such the sad lot I am ordain'd to prove,
Shou'd I, rash votary at that dangerous shrine,
Assume the rose-deck'd chains of guileful Love.

No wreaths of amaranth he twines for me,
Then guarded rise my gay, and youthful hours!
Calm be my thoughts, my artless bosom free,
From the sharp thorns of transitory flowers!