In fcanty life eternity we taste, NIGHT. NWer all the earth, the gloomy veil of night; OW filence reigns, and folemn darkness spreads, Guilt trembles, and is feiz'd with fudden dread, Light will return-but not to them return In whofe dark fouls no ray of virtue shines; Though fashion throws a veil before their crimes, The law of God's engrav'd upon our hearts, Though confcience from the breaft awhile may stray, But darkness has no horrors to the mind, An inward light that would its gloom dispel. Though forked lightnings from the heavens dart, THE LOTTERY. As where crowds attend at Fortune's call, 'S lately faunt'ring through the Hall, And Anak's giant fons are feen, With haughty brow, and threat'ning mein, The features of the anxious crew; The clock ftrikes nine-the wheel turns round, At length, horfe Stentor loudly cries- The tradefman to the office flies; His tickets, blanks, falute his eyes; Amaz'd, he utters many a moan, All hope of thirty thoufand's gone; Attacks Dame Fortune as unkind, And cries, with discontented mindWhy, Fortune, play me fuch vile pranks, "To turn your wheel, and give me blanks ? "Enrich'd with vaft increase of store, "I hop'd to keep my coach and four. "All blanks! Alas! my blifs is flown, "My money loft, my credit gone !” Home he returns; defpairing, ties The halter round his neck, and dies Such is the fate of many a fool, The well-earn'd riches of his native foil. TO RELIGION. BY CHARLES WATKINS, ESQ. FRF Raunch the tear which Anguish bids to roll; RIEND of the drooping heart! ftill whisp'ring peace, The balm of Comfort and of Hope increase, And teach mankind the paths of blifs to know, Which calm the forrowing foul thro' each fad fcene below! TO A LADY, Who refused to accept of a KNIFE from the Writer.. SAID TO BE WRITTEN BY MR, SHERIDAN. Aknife, dear girl! cuts love, they fay: Mere modifh love perhaps it may; For any tool, of any kind, Can fep'rate what was never join'd. Muft cut your foftnefs, worth, and fpirit, When hours, without feem like years you, Till that be done, (and I'd as foon Believe this knife would cut the moon,) THE BRITISH POETICAL MISCELLANY. ELEGY ON THE THIRTY-FIRST OF DECEMBER. YES, I will climb yon rough rock's giddy height, YES That o'er the ocean bends his brow fevere;And, as I mufe on TIME'S NEGLECTED FLIGHT, Wait the last sunshine of the parting Year! Why do the winds fo fadly feem to rave! Why broods fuch folemn horror o'er the deep! For, O! fince LAST DECEMBER's hoary head And ev'ry tranfitory fhade is loft, That, in its course, was fondly call'd "TO-DAY!" Spring's fweets are gone! and Summer's flow'ry boast! And Autumn's purple honours pafs'd away! And now, though Winter, in rude mantle dreft, Soon fhall he fink on April's dewy breast, And laughing May shall re-affume her reign! But MAN, when once his bright day's flufh is o'er, And youth's too fleeting pleasures take their wing, Muft on life's fcene re-vegetate no more, But leap its gulph, to find a fecond spring. |