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WHERE shade yon yews the churchyard's lonely

bourn, With faultering step, absorb’d in thought profound, PHILEMON wends in solitude to mourn, While Evening pours her deep’ning glooms around.

Loud shrieks the blast, the sleety torrent drives,
Wide spreads the tempest's desolating power;
To grief alone Philemon reckless lives,
No rolling peal he heeds, cold blast, or shower.

For this the date that stampt his partner's doom ;
His trembling lips receiv'd her latest breath.
“ Ah! wilt thou drop one tear on Emma's tomb?”
She cried : and clos'd each wistful eye in death.

No sighs he breath’d, for anguish riv’d his breast,
Her clay-cold hand he grasp’d, no tears he shed,
"Till fainting nature sunk by grief oppress’d,
And ere distraction came all sense was fled.

Now time has calm’d, not cur'd PHILEMON's woe,
For grief like his life-woven never dies;
And still each year's collected sorrows flow,
As drooping o'er his EMMA's tomb he sighs.

THE POET AND THE ROSE.

FROM GAY.

Go, Rose, my Chloe's bosom grace !
How happy should I prove,
Might I supply that envied place
With never fading love !
There, Phænix-like, beneath her eye
Involv'd in fragrance burn and die !

Know, hapless Flow'r, that thou shalt find
More fragrant roses there :
I see thy with’ring head reclin'd
With envy and despair !
One common fate we both must prove;
You die with envy, I with love,

IDEM

LATINÈ REDDITUM.

I, Rosa, deliciæ florum, properare memento
Quà niveo invitat pectore pulchra CHLOE !
O, mihi si liceat tali requiescere nido,
Quàm vellem vestro nuncius ire loco!
Sic, O sic positum, rari Phænicis ad instar,
Fragranti extinctum morte perire juvat!

At, Flos infelix, caveas ! formosius ardet,
Dulcè magis redolet, candidus iste sinus :
Vincendi Nympham spem frustrà pascis inanem ;
En folia arescunt, ecce recline caput !
Et Flos et Dominus fato moriuntur eodem,
Te flamma invidiæ, Me meus urit amor.

WHITSUNTIDE.

WRITTEN AT WINCHESTER COLLEGE

ON THE IMMEDIATE APPROACH OF THE HOLIDAYS.

Hence, thou fur-clad Winter, fly!
Sire of shivering Poverty !
Who, as thou creep'st with chilblains lame
To the crowded charcoal flame,
With chattering teeth and ague cold,
Scarce thy shaking sides canst hold
While Thou draw’st the deep cough out:
God of Foot-ball's noisy rout,
Tumult loud and boist'rous play,
The dangerous slide, the snow-ball fray.

But come, thou genial Son of Spring,
WhitsuNTIDE! and with thee bring
Cricket, nimble boy and light,
In slippers red and drawers white,

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