NUGE METRICÆ.

Dirge in Cymbeline.-COLLINS.

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
Each opening sweet of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear,
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove;
But shepherd lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.
No wither'd witch shall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew;
The female fays shall haunt the green,

And dress thy grave with pearly dew.

The redbreast oft at evening hour
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss and gather'd flower

To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds and beating rain
In tempests shake the sylvan cell,

Or midst the chase, on ev'ry plain,

The tender thought on thee shall dwell.

Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly shed,
Beloved, till life can charm no more,

And mourn'd till Pity's self be dead.

Ritè tuum ad tumulum, dilecta Fidelia! flores
Liliaque et violas purpureasque rosas,
Et quicquid dederit ver suavius, ordine tristi
Et nymphæ et juvenes dona suprema ferent.
Nulla leves turbare feris ululatibus umbras
Spectra, nec audebunt sollicitare locum ;
Ast hic, fassa puella suos, et pastor amores,
Vota dabunt faciles, accipientque fidem.
Hìc nulli Lemures, obscœna Venefica nulla,
Ducent nocturnos, gens odiosa, choros;
At Dryades, sylvæ mitissima turba, sepulcrum
Spargent rore novo, sole cadente, tuum.
Prestò erit et sociam miscere rubecula curam,
Vespere sub sero cum silet omne nemus;
Ille, ubi cara jaces, viridi sub cespite, Virgo!
Frondibus et musco condecorabit humum.
Cum tempestates cœlique tonitrua terrent,
Ventorumque ruit vis, agitatque lares;
Cum sylvas inter venando ludimus, ad te

Mens redit, ad fidam fida memorque tui.

Ah! quoties tua forma mihi, loca sola petenti,

Obvia se comitem fert, lacrymasque ciet!

Flebilis heu! dum vita placet, miserandaque semper, Donec erit terris pulsus et exul Amor.

H. H.

B

Stanzas on Woman.-GOLDSmith.

When lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds, too late, that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To bring repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom-is-to die.

From the Vicar of Wakefield.