The maid of Arragon; a tale: By Mrs. Cowley. Part I.

LINES IN IMITATION OF COWLEY.

TOUCH'D by thy wit, my soul's on fire, My bosom throbs with young desire. What! though thy form I never saw, Is there to man divulg'd a law That only what he sees must touch his heart?

The vulgar rule I disallow, And in my passion feel e'en now, That wit, like beauty, gives the tender smart.

Methinks thy form I would not know, Nor to thy face the pleasure owe Of these delicious melting pains, Which when a mortal once attains, He knows the greatest bliss for man design'd.

No, to my fancy I'll apply, There find thy form, thy air, thy eye, And feast my frenzy with a zest refin'd.

When in a pensive mood I sit, And Melancholy takes her fit, Mild, tender, soft, thou shalt appear, Like the first blossoms of the year: But when in brisker tides my spirits run,

L'Allegro shall the pencil take, Describe thy look, thy step, thy make, And shew thee lively as bright MAIA's son.

A MONOLOGUE.

OCHATTERTON! for thee the pensive song I raise, Thou object of my wonder, pity, envy, praise! Bright Star of Genius!—torn from life and fame, My tears, my verse, shall consecrate thy name! Ye Muses! who around his natal bed Triumphant sung, and all your influence shed; APOLLO! thou who rapt his infant breast, And, in his daedal numbers, shone confest, Ah! why, in vain, such mighty gifts bestow —Why give fresh tortures to the Child of Woe? Why thus, with barb'rous care, illume his mind, Adding new sense to all the ills behind?

Thou haggard! Poverty! whose cheerless eye Transforms young rapture to the pond'rous sigh; In whose drear cave no Muse e'er struck the lyre, Nor Bard e'er madden'd with poetic fire; Why all thy spells for CHATTERTON combine? His thought creative, why must thou confine? Subdu'd by thee, his pen no more obeys, No longer gives the song of ancient days; Nor paints in glowing tints from distant skies, Nor bids wild scen'ry rush upon our eyes— Check'd in her flight, his rapid genius cowers, Drops her sad plumes, and yields to thee her powers.

Behold him, Muses! see your fav'rite son The prey of WANT, ere manhood is begun! The bosom ye have fill'd, with anguish torn— The mind you cherish'd, drooping and forlorn!

And now Despair her sable form extends, Creeps to his couch, and o'er his pillow bends. Ah, see! a deadly bowl the fiend conceal'd, Which to his eye with caution is reveal'd— Seize it, APOLLO!—seize the liquid snare! Dash it to earth, or dissipate in air! Stay, hapless Youth! refrain—abhor the draught, With pangs, with racks, with deep repentance fraught! Oh, hold! the cup with woe ETERNAL flows, More—more than Death the pois'nous juice bestows! In vain!—he drinks—and now the searching fires Rush through his veins, and writhing he expires! No sorrowing friend, no sister, parent, nigh, To sooth his pangs, or catch his parting sigh; Alone, unknown, the Muses' darling dies, And with the vulgar dead unnoted lies! Bright Star of Genius!—torn from life and fame, My tears, my verse, shall consecrate thy name!