The New-York Weekly Magazine, or Miscellaneous Repository Part 75

_For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

SONNET.

Extracted from a Novel in Ma.n.u.script.

Winter, thy reign is past, and graceful spring Comes all attir'd to bless expectant May; From every Vale the Zephyrs odours bring, And birds sit twittering on each budding spray.

Wide stream the splendors from the Orb of Day, To warm the chilly bosom of the earth; While smiling FLORA, greets the genial ray, And calls her timid beauteous favourites forth.

But I hail not the glories of the SUN, Nor bless the spicy breeze that skims the heath: For I, an exile, unbelov'd--unknown, Am hastening to the cold--cold realms of _death!_

I sink into the grave without a name, The hapless victim of a Sacred Flame.

ANNA.

July 17th, 1796.

THE EVE OF HYMEN.

'Tis late--and my DELIA now hastens to rest, Rapt into sweet visions, I wander alone, Love soothes the fond wishes that glow in my breast, With transports, to wealth, and to grandeur unknown.

Soft--soft be thy slumbers, dear, innocent fair, Descend, smiling peace, on my bosom's delight, Hope sheds her pure beams on each long nourish'd care, As day brightly dawns on the shadows of night.

Reclin'd on her pillow, now mute is that voice, Whose sounds my affection insensibly stole, And clos'd are those eyes, in whose beams I rejoice, And veil'd are those lips which enrapture my soul.

Conceal'd are those cheeks where luxuriantly glow The tenderest graces of beauty and youth, And hidden from me is that bosom of snow, The mansion of purity, virtue, and truth.

She's absent, yet lovely and graceful to view, Kind fancy restores the fair pride of my heart, Spring calls forth the verdure of nature anew, Her smiles to my senses fresh pleasures impart.

No more shall soft sorrow my verses inspire, Despondence has clouded my spirits too long In extacy sweeping the soul-breathing lyre, Love, Hymen, and rapture enliven my song.

TO A VIOLET.

Tho' from thy bank of velvet torn, Hang not, fair flower, thy drooping crest; On Delia's bosom shalt thou find A softer sweeter bed of rest.

Tho' from mild Zephyr's kiss no more Ambrosial balms thou shalt inhale, Her gentle breath, whene'er she sighs, Shall fan thee with a purer gale.

But thou be grateful for that bliss For which in vain a thousand burn, And, as thou stealest sweets from her, Give back thy choicest in return.

THE SNOW-DROP AND PRIMROSE.

A Primrose, ever sweet to view, Beside a lovely Snow-drop grew.

They were the boasted pride of Spring, Fann'd by the zephyr's balmy wing; Each thought itself the choicest flower That ever drank the spangled shower; And vied for beauty, fought for praise, Beneath the sun's resplendent rays.

At length the Snow-drop, fraught with ire, Began to vent its jealous fire.

'You, Primrose! are not blest as I, 'Who can delight each gazing eye; 'Superior beauties I may claim, 'But you were born to meet disdain!

'That yellow tinge which courts the air, 'Is nothing but the type of care!

'Review my innocence and worth, 'Know that I sprung from purer earth; 'While you from coa.r.s.er mould arose-- 'The truth your fallow visage shows 'A grov'ling paltry flow'r, and pale, 'The jest of ev'ry nipping gale!

'I am the youthful Poet's theme, 'Of me the bard delights to dream; 'In lofty verse he sings my praise, 'And paints me in his choicest lays; 'But you, the early bud of care, 'Are never seen to flourish there!'

The Primrose heard, with modest ear, And, 'Flow'r,' it said, 'tho' sprung so near, 'I still coeval praise may claim, 'Nor was I born to meet disdain!

'Know that we both, tho' now so gay, 'Shall soon be lost, and fade away; 'And if for beauty's meed you vie, 'What boots it? since next eve you die!

'The Rose is lovely to behold.

'The Cowslip too, which boasts of gold, 'The Tulip and the Lilly fair, 'All yield their fragrance to the air; 'But soon their beauty fades away, 'And then, proud Snow-drop, what are they?'

Celia, be wise, from pride refrain, Nor of your matchless face be vain!

Beauty is short, and soon you'll find, The greatest centers in the mind.

Let Virtue be your sov'reign guide, Make her your friend, your boast and pride; Then will the brightest deed be done, And all the beauties s.h.i.+ne in One.

AN APPEAL.

What must he---who in secret pa.s.sion dies, Who doats, yet dares not to reveal his sighs?

Love urges forward to declare his pain, Fear trembling chides his pa.s.sion to restrain.

Thus Love, more n.o.ble, towards Fate would bend, But Fear repels it least it should offend.

What then, ye G.o.ds! must he in secret pine, Or bravely dare and live---or life resign?

NEW-YORK: _+Printed by JOHN BULL, No. 115, Cherry-Street+, where every Kind of Printing work is executed with the utmost Accuracy and Dispatch.--+Subscriptions+ for this +Magazine+ (at 2s. per month) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and by E. MITCh.e.l.l, Bookseller, No. 9, Maiden-Lane._

_UTILE DULCI._

THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE; or, Miscellaneous Repository.

+Vol. II.+] +Wednesday, November 16, 1796.+ [+No. 72.+

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