Belfast Monthly Magazine

AnswerAuthor(s): Mrs. BSource: The Belfast Monthly Magazine, Vol. 5, No. 26 (Sep. 30, 1810), p. 205Published by: Belfast Monthly MagazineStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/30023194 .

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1810.] Poeth:y 2#5

Sons la verdure Zephir eteint les feux du joir, Alais son hateine fraiche et pure, Ranime tous les feux d'amour,

Sons la verdure. Sans la verdure

Point de myrthe, ni de laurier, Comment orner la cheveluie De l'amant, et du guerrier

Sans la verdure? Sur la verdure

L'innocence timidement, Cueille des fleurs pour sa parure, Par fois elle en perdjouant

Sur la verdure. Sutla verdure

L'amour a tfouv' le bonheur, )epuis cette heureus avanture L'Esperance a pris la couleur

De la verdure. A Translation or imitation of the fore-

going elegant Stanzas is earnestly re- quested.

BOAST not, fond fouth, the Fairy power Of wit, or worth, or feeling fine,

Say canst thou fix a widow's dow'r ? Arc Settlements or Bank-Stock thine !

if thou not share Potosi's mine, Nor offer Love a golden show'r,

Talk not of charms, or bliss divine Thou wast not born in fortune's hour.

A. RI

ON THE TINES. BY MR. B-O OFB--- -D.

O TIMES! 0 manners, hoinest Ciero

cry'd, When his luv'd Rome lay bleeding by his

side ; When sire with son in fierce contention

stood, And Roman plains were drenched in Ro-

man blood; liUt to exclainm, 0 times, O manners now, When none can fear the haughty tyrant's

brow, When esery hill, and every *alley smiles, And peace and plenty bless these happy

isles, To cry 0 timnes,O manners, now, displays, 'Your own ill-temper, not good George's

days.

ADDRESS TO A HARPM FAREWELL my harp! farewell my

unly treasure ! No more with thee 1'11 cheer my weary

riird, No more with thee I'll wske this sprightly

measure, For I must leave thee, sweetdst friend,

behind.

Thy straits no more shall lull each rude tmotion,

And give the tear of rapture to my eye i From thee I go across the stormy ocear Where no loved friend shall hear me when

I sigh. Oft o'er thy strings in silent rapture

musing, The poet's drearm would o'er my fancy

steal, A nd thy sot't tones a gentle balm diffusing Those sorrows softened hich thiy could

not heal. The noisy follies of the world disdaining, To thee how oft for solace would I fly, And while I listened to thy soft conmplaijz.

How would'st thou hush the agonizing sigh.

But hopeless now, forlbrn, and broken- hearted,

From thee, in vain, I seek my lostrepose. Remembrance liingers over joys depart-

ed, Joys that but aggravate my present wosd farewell my harp! farewell my only

treasure, No more with thee I'll cheer my weary

miad, No more with thee i'll wake the sprightly

nieasure, For I must leave thee, dnres( ft-iend, be-

hind. k. C. EtLVAST MrAiG. NO. XXVI. CCc

ANSWE;R, aY MRS. E~-'D.

WHEN CTesar Rome's imperial spirit broke,

And bowed her haughty neck beneath his yoke,

" O wretched times," desponding Cic'ro cry d,

When Romre's iest blood but swelled her Tibflr's 'ride.

Yet generonus Brutus struck one well aim'd blow,

And instaut vengeance laid the tyrant low,

B &t when oppression tries each deeper art, 'To poison, not to stab each honest heart : WIwli n virtue is so roolted afom the ground, That hardiy can one generous vice be found ; And inst qf gold in every sordid breast, Like Aaron's rod, has swallowed up the rest ; Then, then, exclaim 0 haj less times indeed!

Fq,r deeper is the wound which does not bied.

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