VERSES

WRITTEN IN AN ALCOVE.

BY Mrs. BARBAULD.

Now the Moon beams trembling lustre

Silvers o'er the dewy green,

And in soft and shadowy colours

Sweetly paints the chequer'd scene.

Here, between the opening branches,
Streams a flood of soften'd light;

There, the thick and twisted foliage

Spreads the browner gloom of night.

This is sure the haunt of fairies,

In yon cool Alcove they play;

Care can never cross their threshold, Care was only made for day.

Far from hence be noise and clamour,
Sick disgust, and anxious fear;

Pining grief and wasting anguish
Never keep their vigils here.

Tell no tales of sheeted spectres
Rising from the quiet tomb;

Fairer forms this cell shall visit,
Brighter vigils gild the gloom.

Choral songs and sprightly voices
Echo, from her cell, shall call,

Sweeter, sweeter than the murmar
Of the distant water-fall.

Every ruder gust of passion

Lull'd by music dies away,

Till within the charmed bosom

None but soft affections play :

Soft as when the ev'ning breezes
Gently stirs the poplar grove;
Brighter than the smile of Summer,

Sweeter than the breath of Love.

There the inchanted Muse shall follow

Cælia to the rustic cell,

And each careless Note repeating,

Tune it to her charming shell.

Not the Muse who crown'd with laurels.

Solemn stalks with tragic gait,

And in clear and lofty vision

Sees the future births of fate:

242 VERSES WRITTEN IN AN ALCOVE.

Not the maid who crown'd with cypress,

Sweeps along in scepter'd pall,

And in sad and solemn accents

Mourns the crested heroes' fall:

But that other smiling sister

With the blue and laughing eye,

Singing in a lighter measure

Strains of woodland harmony;

All unknown to fame and glory,
Easy, blithe, and debonaire,

Crown'd with flowers, her careless tresses

Loosely floating in the air.

Then when next the star of ev'ning

Softly sheds its silent dew,

Let me in this rustic temple

Cælia! meet the muse and you.

THE HERMIT.

BY JAMES BEATTIE.

AT the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill, And nought but the nightingale's song in the

grove :

'Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar, While his harp rung symphonious, a Hermit be

gan;

No more with himself or with nature at war,

He thought as a Sage, though he felt as a Man.