TO INDIFFERENCE.

[From the fame Work.]

NDIFF'RENCE come! thy torpid juices fhed
On my keen fenfe: plunge deep my wounded heart,
In thickelt apathy, till it congeal,

Or mix with thee incorp'rate. Come, thou foc
To fharp fenfation, in thy cold embrace
A death-like flumber fhall a refpite give
To my long reftlefs foul, toft on extreme,
From blifs to pointed woe. Oh, gentle Pow',
Dear fubftitute of Patience! thou canst eafe
The foldier's toil, the gloomy captive's chain,
The lover's anguish, and the mifer's fear.

Proud Beauty will not own thee! her loud boast
Is Virtue while thy chilling breath alone
Blows o'er her foul, bidding her paffions fleep.
Miftaken caufe, the frozen fair denies
Thy faving influence. Virtue never lives,
But in the bofom, struggling with its wound:
There the supports the conflict, there augments
The pang of hopeless love, the fenfelefs itab
Of gaudy ign'rance, and more deeply drives
The poifon'd dart, hurl'd by the long lov'd friend;
Then pants with painful victory. Bear me hence,
Thou antidote to pain! thy real worth

Mortals can never know. What's the vain boast
Of Senfibility but to be wretched?

In her best transports lives a latent fting,

Which wouuds as they expire. On her high heights
Our fouls can never fit; the point so nice,
We quick fly off-fecure, but in defcent.

To Senfibility, what is not blifs

Is woe. No placid medium's ever held
Beneath her torrid line, when ftraining high
The fibres of the foul. Of pain, or joy,

She gives too large a fhare; but thou, more kind,
Wrapp'it up the heart from both, and bidd'ft it reft
In ever-with'd-for cafe. By all the pow'rs

Which move within the mind for diff'rent ends,
I'd rather lofe myfelf with thee, and share
Thine happy indolence, for one short hour,
Then live of Senfibility the tool

For endless ages. Oh! her points have pierc'd
My foul, till, like a fponge, it drinks up woe.
Then leave me, Senfibility! be gone,
Thou chequer'd angel! Seek the foul refin'd:
I hate thee! and thy long progreffive brood,
Of joys and mis'ries. Soft Indiff'rence, come!

In this low cottage thou shalt be my gueft,
Till death fhuts out the hour; here down I'll fink
With thee upon my couch of homely rush,
Which fading forms of friendship, love, or hope,
Mult ne'er approach. Ah! quickly hide, thou pow'r,
Thofe dear intruding images! Oh, feal
The lids of mental fight, left I abjure
My freezing fupplication.-All is still.
Idea, fmother'd leaves my mind a waste,
Where Senfibility muft lose her prey,

The STORY of FOSCARI.

[From the Second Book of PoLWHELE'S English Orator.]

TURN thine eyes

Where light the gaudy gondolas glance o'er
The fubject gulf of Adria-Mercy there
Sheds agonizing tears, as terror paints
To young ingenious Fofcari; whofe fad fate
Told in Venetian story, hath afpers'd
Its page. Donato, a Venetian lord,
Near his piazz'd dome, at twilight eve,
Feii by a hand unknown; when, fudden, paft
A flave of noble Fofcari-who, ere morn,

Had fled from Venice. Hence the fenate deem'd
The eloping menial but an instrument

Of Fofcari's fancied villainy. O loft-
Too early loft to all thy country's hopes,
Much injur'd youth! What tho' thy purer fame,
Thy undifguis'd demeanor, and thy looks
Of open candor, mingled every charm
Which might have feal'd the eye, that never felt
The clofing lid-Sufpicion's reftlefs orb-
The guilty ftain !-No figh from Virtue's foul
Avail'd to foothe the fenatorial voice,
That bade thee fly Venetia's rage, and hide
'Mid Candia's cliffs, an exile-Candia, once
The glorious feat of legislative fame,
The nurfe of antient Minos-the retreat

Of heaven's bright race; where each ambrofial vale
Embower'd a god! Ah funk amid the isles,
A den for flavery, whilst Oblivion's breath
Spreads o'er its hundred cities, as the dews
Of its own Lethe !-Yet its groves, ftill rich
With fruits and foliage, wave-its yellow fields,
With various grain; and its purpureal hills
Still fwelling with the clustering grape, announce
The promis'd vintage !-but in vain they wave

In vain they blush, to the poor exile's eye
Which wildly wanders o'er the reftiefs furge;
And ftraining from the lone beach to the mists
That dim the horizon, afks if fome white fail
Might, haply, gain upon the fight-fome bark
Streaming the well-known pendant. Many a year
Heavily linger'd, while thro' hope deferr'd
Sicken'd his heart"-tho', oft, her golden light
Gleam'd, fleetingly-when, near, Venetian fails
Seem'dro'er his trefhen'd fpirit, as they came,
To waft the sweetnefs of his native air!
Alas! his friends, tho' pitying, fill declin'd
The mediatorial task. To Milan's duke
(Now his last hopeless refuge) he entrusts
His prayers for friendly refcue-with a flave,
Who, faithlefs, to Venetia's lords betrays
The tale of woe. Incens'd the nobles hear-
And (as their law condemns the wretch who flies
To foreign potentates) remand him home
Doom'd to feverer anguish. His wan limbs
Now stretch'd along the wheel of torture, hangs
Upon his bloodlefs lips the faultering voice:
May heaven forgive my perfecuting foes-
My heart forgives them yet, a moment, hear
Yet, but a moment, pity! while I tell
That him who bore my meffage I believ'd
In treachery not unpractis'd; nor misdeem'd
He would betray the truft! thus, o'er the feas
Hurried to meet my judges, I yet hop'd
Once more to vifit the delightful spot

That gave me birth-to fhare, thro' racking pain• Tho? death repay'd, a friend's laft lingering looks; And bathe my bufom in parental tears,

And die in peace !'-He spoke, and look'd around
In vain, for Mercy, thro' the prifon-gloom-
She beam'd not, there. Instead of Mercy's voice,
The fentence echoed : That, to Candia's ifle
Returning, he fhould lie, for one long year,
• Chain'd to the defolated dungeon; thence,
(The term expir'd) to wander o'er its rocks
Thro' life an out-caft.' Yet, one little space
The defpot's pity granted, for the throbs
Of filial duty from its fondest joys
For ever torn. His age-bent parents came-
The venerable father-on whose brow
Hoar Time had scatter'd many a filver hair
Distinctly trac'd, and who full thirty years
Had worn the purple-the pale mother, wild
Thro' grief- My fon (exclaim'd the fire) 'tis thine
To bear thy fate with firmness!''Tis a fate,

(Ang

(Anfwer'd the finking Fofcari) which I dread • Beyond the extremer agonies that rend

The struggling frame! O by this bursting heart
• Which ever own'd affection's pureft glow,
• Warm for a parent's welfare-by the tears
Of innocence, that afk a father's love
To give it yet unfullied to the world-
O, by the mercies of a Saviour, fhield
Thy fon-nor let each folitary groan
Beat the flow knell of his departing foul!"
Alas! my Foscari! my power were vain-
• Submit thee to thy country's laws'-the doge
Replies; and hurrying from his fon's embrace,
Shiver'd thro' milery's keener pangs too sharp
To fuffer, 'till the chillnefs that benumbs
The fainting, ic'd his aged bofom o'er
Yet left life's feeble fpirit!-but to paint
The mother's form-O ye, whofe hearts have felt
The fond maternal yearnings-ye, whofe eye
Hath caught the laff fir'd glances of your child
last
Just finking into death's cold dews-'tis yours-
Severe preheminence! to paint that form.
At length, the dire difaftrous ftory ran
Thro' Venice: and the accumulated woe
Touch'd the relenting fenate; while Remorse
That ftrove to borrow the benignant air
Of Mercy, the poor exile's pardon feal'd.
Strait flew the mandate of recall: (for long
In Candia's pris'n immur'd, the youth had mourn'd
His country loft-) But ah! too late the ray
Of Mercy glimmer'd. Lo the hapless youth,
Amidft his dismal durance as he breath'd
The folitary groan, on the drear wall

Had etch'd his tale of mis'ry and expir❜d.

MONA.

"SHE

An ODE. By the fame Author.

[An Original Communication.]

HROUD-in the billowy mift's deep-bofom fhroud "My ravish'd ifle!"the voice was vain!

Mona! mark yon' kindling cloud

That feems to fire the main :

As flafhing to the incumbent skies,
Broad the hoftile flames arise
From the reverential wood;
Red its central gloom with blood!
Many a white-rob'd Druid hoar
Totters in the ftream of gore;
Meets the falchion's furious blow;
Sinking, execrates the foe!

Or, across the Cromleh's stone,
Struggling, gives to Death a groan!
Or, within the circling fane,
Pours his dark myfterious ftrain;

Or grafps his fhrine, and hails the stroke,
Stabb'd beneath his holy oak!
Yelling while the maniac maid
Hurries down the dimwood glade;
And uproots her bristling hair,
Paler amid the ghaftly glare!

II.

But lo! the fcenes of other days are fled!
Yet myfterious horror fills

The long fcoop'd dales where Druids bled,
And deepens the dark hills!
Through the tree-tufted rock, that wide
Opes, as rent, its chasmy fide,

Ivied ruins gleaming-grey,

Mar the torrents foamy way!
There the enthufiaft loves to dwell,
Loft in the romantic dell;
Tracing temples, abbey-walls
Shiver'd arches, caftle-halls:
Whether the fun dart his light
'Mid the branches moffy-white;
Or the ftar of eve, aflaunt,
Glimmer on the spectre-haunt
Oft as the moon light echoes round
Add their ftore of mellow found
To the crash of tumbling heaps
That o'erbrow'd the craggy fteeps
To each murmur of the cave,
Fretted by many a restless wave!

The BLUSH of SIMPLICITY.

[By the fame.]

WHILE Charlotte confcious that the loves,

W Would hide the crimson's tranfient hue;

She veils the blush, which only proves

A heart to love and Corin true.

In erring maids that fondly stray
A tinge as bright as thine we fee;
Yet clouded looks its fource betray

Unknown to innocence and thee.

No