ANON., OX., 1795.

      Alone, and pensive, near some desert shore,
    Far from the haunts of men I love to stray,
    And, cautiously, my distant path explore
    Where never human footsteps mark’d the way. 
    Thus from the public gaze I strive to fly,
    And to the winds alone my griefs impart;
    While in my hollow cheek and haggard eye
    Appears the fire that burns my inmost heart. 
    But ah, in vain to distant scenes I go;
    No solitude my troubled thoughts allays. 
    Methinks e’en things inanimate must know
    The flame that on my soul in secret preys;
    Whilst Love, unconquer’d, with resistless sway
    Still hovers round my path, still meets me on my way.

    J.B.  TAYLOR.

      Alone and pensive, the deserted plain,
    With tardy pace and sad, I wander by;
    And mine eyes o’er it rove, intent to fly
    Where distant shores no trace of man retain;
    No help save this I find, some cave to gain
    Where never may intrude man’s curious eye,
    Lest on my brow, a stranger long to joy,
    He read the secret fire which makes my pain
    For here, methinks, the mountain and the flood,
    Valley and forest the strange temper know
    Of my sad life conceal’d from others’ sight—­
    Yet where, where shall I find so wild a wood,
    A way so rough that there Love cannot go
    Communing with me the long day and night?

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET XXIX.

S’ io credessi per morte essere scarco.

HE PRAYS FOR DEATH, BUT IN VAIN.

      Had I believed that Death could set me free
    From the anxious amorous thoughts my peace that mar,
    With these my own hands which yet stainless are,
    Life had I loosed, long hateful grown to me. 
    Yet, for I fear ’twould but a passage be
    From grief to grief, from old to other war,
    Hither the dark shades my escape that bar,
    I still remain, nor hope relief to see. 
    High time it surely is that he had sped
    The fatal arrow from his pitiless bow,
    In others’ blood so often bathed and red;
    And I of Love and Death have pray’d it so—­
    He listens not, but leaves me here half dead. 
    Nor cares to call me to himself below.

    MACGREGOR.

      Oh! had I deem’d that Death had freed my soul
    From Love’s tormenting, overwhelming thought,
    To crush its aching burthen I had sought,
    My wearied life had hasten’d to its goal;
    My shivering bark yet fear’d another shoal,
    To find one tempest with another bought,
    Thus poised ’twixt earth and heaven I dwell as naught,
    Not daring to assume my life’s control. 
    But sure ’tis time that Death’s relentless bow
    Had wing’d that fatal arrow to my heart,
    So often bathed in life’s dark crimson tide: 
    But though I crave he would this boon bestow,
    He to my cheek his impress doth impart,
    And yet o’erlooks me in his fearful stride.