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The occasion that gave rise to the following Poem may require

explanation.—A lady had presented to the author an emblematical drawing accompanied by the following lines :

Tel ful L'amour au Siecle D'oron ne le trouve plus, mais on le cherche encore-n offrant qu'un coeur a la Beautè, aussi nud que la Verite, sans armes comme l' Innocence, sans ailes comme la Constance.

Soft as the down descends to deck
The plumage of the cygnet's neck,
Soft as the silent zephyrs breathe,
Nor wake the slumb'ring wave beneath,
Thy pencil's light and shadowy line
Describes the delicate design:
Union of taste and skill to prove
Such "in the golden age was Love."

See where yon infant, Cupid, stands :
His arm the subject globe commands;
There pours his torch, the living fire
Of joy, and hope, and bold desire ;
Around his altar lies the bow
That lays the strongest warrior low;
And darts of thrilling force, that prove
What “in the golden age was Love."

Yet why, where Love in height sublime Triumphant rules o'er fate and time, Where his full quiver's feath’ry pride Proclaims o'er all his empire wide; Why on his altar's trophy'd base Would'st thou the name of FRIENDSHIP trace? Not to this heart can friendship prove What “ in the golden age was Love."

Friendship! the cold, reluctant name,
Would quench the warmest, tend'rest flame:
See, where love lights his living lamp!
The sacred fire shall friendship damp?
Love's arrow in my breast I feel;
No wound of Love can friendship heal.
Ah, never can thy friendship prove
What “in the golden age was Love!"

And "cannot Love on earth be found,
Tho' sought of all the world around :"
Is the bright charm thy hand portray'd
Now vanish'd to an empty shade?
Ah no!within this faithful breast
Still reigns the pow'r of Love confest ;
And still to thee its truth shall prove
Such “in the golden age was Love."

Ah me! methinks I hear thee say, No hearts the pow'r of Love obey; No constant bards his aid invoke; No bosoms seek his flow'ry yoke; Stern av’rice breaks his trampled bow; The myrtle withers on his brow, While scarce a leaf remains to prove What " in the golden age was Love."

I bend to Love's triumphant throne, “ I give to thee one heart alone.” Ah! when far hence compell’d to go, I drag the tort'ring chain of woe, Tho' many a fair may seek mine eye, To thee I'll pour the faithful sigh; And, spite of time and absence, prove Such in the golden age was Love."

See Love in native beauty rise ! Like “ Truth,” the god rejects disguise ; Like “Innocence," he bears no arms To shield his breast from vain alarms; Like “Constancy,” unwont to stray, He spreads no wing to speed away. How well Emnilia's hand can prove What " in the golden age was Love !”

Oh, dare I hope the beauteous maid Her Alfred's heart had there portray'd ! That heart, like “Truth,” each thought unveild, No wand'ring wish from her conceald; Like “ Innocence," unarm'd to bear The wound her eye inflicted there; And, firm as “Constancy,” should prove This is the GOLDEN AGE of Love.

E. Swift, Esq.


Cease to blame my melancholy,

Though with sighs and folded arms,

I muse with silence on her charm's;
Censure not-1 know 'tis folly.

Yet these mournful thoughts possessing,

Such delights I find in grief,

That, could heaven afford relief,
My fond heart would scorn the blessing.

Sir John Moore.




Died April 23, 1782,

aged 54.

A tender husband, and a friend sincere,
Consign’d to earth, implores the silent tear ;
Learn'd in the laws, he ne'er warp'd their sense
To shelter vice, or injure innocence;
But firm to truth, by no mean int'rest mov'd,
To all dispens'd that justice which he lovd;
Virtue oppress'd he taught her rights to know,
And guilt detected fear'd the coming blow.
Thus humbly useful, and without offence,
He fil ld the circle mark'd by Providence;

age completing, what his youth began, “ The noblest work of God, -AN HONEST MAN.”

Chesterfield, Derbyshire.

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