Now rival chiefs my woes deride, And generous friendship mourns me; Hates (while it chides my vanquish'd pride,) The Russian maid that scorns me. V. O! wou'd this charming maid recall When near the southern city's wall, When Drontheim's armies trebled ours, And thunder'd o'er the plain, While every wave its river Ran purple to the main; pours When conquest, on her eagle-wing, Yet, yet, to blight my youth with cares, The garland of the war she tears, The Russian maiden scorns me. "Can she deny that on the great day when, posted near "the city, I joined the battle, and fought against the people "of Drontheim? Their troops trebled ours; it was a dreadful "conflict. I valiantly handled my arms, and left behind me "lasting monuments of my exploits. I left the renowned king of Drontheim breathless on the field, and yet a Rus"sian maiden scorns me." THE LAKE; OR, MODERN IMPROVEMENT IN LANDSCAPE. GRAND, ancient, gothic, mark this ample dome, The owner shrugs his shoulders, and deplores To shock his lordship's gaze, and blot the plain; Rise in Italian, or in Gallic grace. "But, yet," he cries, " by Fashion's aid divine, "Rescued from sylvan shrouds, my scenes may shine; "Resistless goddess, to thy votary come, "And chace the horrors of this leafy gloom!" She comes!-the gaudy despot stands confest, Scorning their power, and reckless of expense, The foe of beauty, and the bane of sense; Close by my lord, and with strange projects warm, Stalks o'er the scenes her edicts shall deform. "Yon broad, brown wood, now darkening to the “ sky, "Shall prostrate soon with perish'd branches lie; "Yield golden treasures for our great design, "Till all the scene one glassy surface shine." Mid shrubs, and tangled grass, with sparkling waves, A little vagrant brook the valley laves; Now hid, now seen, the wanton waters speed, "A Lake! she cries, this source can never fail, "A lake shall fill our undulating dale! "No more the dingles shall sink dark and deep, "No waving hedgerows round the meadows sweep; "All must be Lake this level lawn between, “And those bare hills, and rocks, that form the 66 screen, "Peer o'er the yet proud woods, and close the "scene." What recks it her that, many a tedious year, See, at the pert behest, subservient toil Plough with the victim woods the echoing soil! See, the forced flood th' o'erwhelmed valley laves, O'er fields, lanes, thickets, spread the silent waves !—— No lively hue of spring they know to wear, No gorgeous glow of the consummate year; No tinge that gold-empurpled autumn spreads O'er the rich woodland, sloping from the meads, But stagnant, mute, unvarying, cold, and pale, They meet the winter-wind, and summer-gale. Between the base of yonder gothic pile, In part, from that dull pool's eternal grey; Too late the slumbering Genius of the scene Starts from his mossy couch, with wilder'd mien; Dismay'd beholds, and all too late to save, His graces destined to a watery grave; His winding brook, green wood, and mead and dell, And for the guardian oaks, now prostrate laid, In vain he curses the fantastic power, And the pale ravage of her idiot-hour; |