And cruel is the wintry wind that chills myheart with cold,

But crueller than all, the lad that left my love for gold!

Hush, hush my lovely baby, and warm thee in my breast ;

Ah little thinks thy father how fadly we're diftreft;

For cruel as he is, did he know but how we

fare,

He'd fhield us in his arms from this bitter piercing air.

Cold, cold my deareft jewel thy little life is gone:

Oh let my tears revive thee, fo warm that trickle down :

My tears that gush so warm, oh they freeze before they fall :

Ah wretched, wretched mother! thou'rt now bereft of all."

Then

Then down she funk despairing upon the

drifted fnow,

And wrung with killing anguifh, lamented loud her woe;

She kifs'd her baby's pale lips, and laid it by her fide;

Then caft her eyes to heaven, then bow'd her head, and died.

A.

The Paffions.

[From the inimitable unimitated manner in which Mr. Palmer recites and acts the Paffions, together with the excellence of the Ode, 'twas fuppofed the infertion would be highly agreeable, especially to those who have had the fatisfaction in feeing that truly great performer.]

WHEN Mufic, heavenly maid, was

young,

While yet in early Greece the fung,

The

1

The Paffions oft, to hear her shell,
Throng'd around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Poffeft beyond the Mufe's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Difturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd.
'Till once, 'tis faid, when all were fir'd,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd,

From the supporting myrtles round
They fnatch'd her inftruments of found.
And as they oft had heard apart
Sweet leffons of her forceful art,

Each, for madness rul'd the hour,
Would prove his own expreffive power.

First Fear his hand, its fkill to try,
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid,
And back recoil'd he knew not why,
Ev'n at the found himself had made.

Next Anger rufh'd, his eyes on fire,
In light'nings own'd his fecret ftings,
In one rude clash he ftruck the lyre,
And fwept with hurried hand the ftrings.

With

With woeful measures wan Defpair-
Low fullen founds his grief beguil'd,
A folemn, ftrange, and mingled air,
'Twas fad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hope, with eyes fo fair,
What was thy delighted measure ?
Still it whifper'd promis'd pleafure,
And bade the lovely fcenes at diftance hail!
Still would her touch the fcene prolong,
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,

She call'd on Echo ftill thro' all the fong; And where her fweeteft theme the chofe, A foft refponfive voice was heard at every clofe,

And Hope enchanted fimil'd, and wav'd her golden hair.

And longer had the fung,-but, with a frown,

Revenge impatient rose,

He threw his blood-ftain'd fword in thunder down,

And with a withering look,

The war-denouncing trumpet took,

And

And blew a blaft fo loud and dread,

Were ne'er prophetic founds fo full of woe; And ever and anon he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat: And tho' fometimes, each dreary pause between,

Dejected Pity at his fide,

Her foul-fubduing voice applied,

Yet ftill he kept his wild unalter'd mien, While each ftrain'd ball of fight feem'd bursting from his head.

Thy numbers, Jealoufy, to nought were fix'd,

Sad proof of thy distressful state,

Of differing themes the veering fong was

mix'd,

And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate.

With eyes up-rais'd, as one inspir'd,
Pale Melancholy fat retir'd,

And from her wild fequester'd seat,

In notes by distance made more fweet,

Pour'd