TO IN DIFFERENCE.

IN

[From the fame Work.].

NDIFF'RENCE come! thy torpid juices thed
On my keen fenfe: plunge deep my wounded heart,
In thickelt apathy, till it congeal,

Or mix with thee incorp'rate, Come, thou foe
To fharp fenfation, in thy cold embrace
A death-like flumber shall a refpite give
To my long reftlefs foul, toft on extreme,
From blifs to pointed woe. Oh, gentle Pow'r,
Dear fubftitute of Patience! thou canst ease
The foldier's toil, the gloomy captive's chain,
The lover's anguish, and the mifer's fear.

Proud Beauty will not own thee! her loud boat
Is Virtue-while thy chilling breath alone
Blows o'er her foul, bidding her paffions sleep.
Mistaken caufe, the frozen fair denies
Thy faving influence. Virtue never lives,
But in the bofom, ftruggling with its wound:
There she supports the conflict, there augments
The pang of hopeless love, the fenfeless stab
Of gaudy ign'rance, and more deeply drives
The poifon'd dart, hurl?d by the long lov'd friend;
Then pants with painful victory. Bear me hence,
Thou antidote to pain! thy real worth

Mortals can never know. What's the vain boast
Of Senfibility but to be wretched?

In her beft transports lives a latent fting,

Which wouuds as they expire. On her high heights
Our fouls can never fit; the point so nice,
We quick fly off-fecure, but in defcent.
To Senfibility, what is not blifs

Is woe. No placid medium's ever held
Beneath her torrid line, when ftraining high
The fibres of the foul. Of pain, or joy,

She gives too large a fhare; but thou, more kind,
Wrapp' up the heart from both, and.bidd'st it rest
In ever-wish'd-for cafe. By all the pow'rs

Which move within the mind for diff'rent ends,
I'd rather lofe myself with thee, and flare
Thine happy indolence, for one short hour,
Then live of Senfibility the tool

For endless ages. Oh! her points have pierc'd
My foul, till, like a fponge, it drinks up woe.
Then leave me, Senfibility! be gone,
Thou chequer'd angel! Seek the foul refin'd:
I hate thee! and thy long progreffive brood,
Of joys and mis'ries. Soft Indiff'rence, come!

In this low cottage thou shalt be my guest,
Till death fhuts out the hour: here down I'll fink
With thee upon my couch of homely rush,
Which fading forms of friendship, love, or hope,
Mut ne'er approach. Ah! quickly hide, thou pow'r,
Thofe dear intruding images! Oh, feal
The lids of mental fight, left I abjure
My freezing fupplication.-All is ftill.
Idea, fmother'd leaves my mind a waste,
Where Senfibility muft lofe her prey.

The STORY of FOSCARI.

[From the Second Book of POLWHELE's English Orater,]

TURN thine eyes

Where light the gaudy gondolas glance o'er
The fubject gulf of Adria-Mercy there
Sheds agonizing tears, as terror points
To young ingenious Fofcari; whose fad fate
Told in Venetian story, hath afpers'd
Its page. Donato, a Venetian lord,
Near his piazz'd dome, at twilight eve,
Fell by a hand unknown; when, fudden, paft
A flave of noble Fofcari-who, ere morn,

Had fled from Venice. Hence the fenate deem'd
The eloping menial but an instrument

Of Fofcari's fancied villainy. O loft-
Too early loft to all thy country's hopes,

Much injur'd youth! What tho' thy purer fame,
Thy undifguis'd demeanor, and thy looks
Of open candor, mingled every charm
Which might have feal'd the eye, that never felt
The clofing lid-Sufpicion's reftlefs orb-
The guilty stain!-No figh from Virtue's foul
Avail'd to foothe the fenatorial voice,
That bade thee fly Venetia's rage, and hide
'Mid Candia's cliffs, an exile-Candia, once
The glorious feat of legislative fame,
The nurfe of antient Minosthe retreat

.

Of heaven's bright race; where each ambrofial vale
Embower'd a god! Ah funk amid the ifles,
A den for flavery, whilst Oblivion's breath
Spreads o'er its hundred cities, as the dews
Of its own Lethe !-Yet its groves, ftill rich
With fruits and foliage, wave-its yellow fields,
With various grain; and its purpureal hills
Still fwelling with the clustering grape, announce
The promis'd vintage!--but in vain they wave,

In vain they blush, to the poor exile's eye
Which wildly wanders o'er the reftlefs furge;
And ftraining from the lone beach to the mists
That dim the horizon, afks if fome white fail
Might, haply, gain upon the fight-fome bark
Streaming the well-known pendant. Many a year
Heavily linger'd, while "thro' hope deferr'd
Sicken'd his heart"-tho', oft, her golden light
Gleam'd, flectingly-when, near, Venetian Tails
Seem'd o'er his freshen'd fpirit, as they came,
To waft the fweetnefs of his native air!
Alas! his friends, tho' pitying, fill declin'd
The mediatorial taík. To Milan's duke
(Now his last hopeless refuge) he entrusts
His prayers for friendly refcue-with a flave,
Who, faithlefs, tó Venetia's lords betrays
The tale of woe. Incens'd the nobles hear-
And (as their law condemns the wretch who flies
To foreign potentates) remand him home
Doom'd to feverer anguish. His wan limbs
Now ftretch'd along the wheel of torture, hangs
Upon his bloodlefs lips the faultering voice:

hear

May heaven forgive my perfecuting foes-
My heart forgives them! yet, a moment,
Yet, but a moment, pity! while I tell
That him who bore my meffage I believ'd
In treachery not unpractis'd; nor misdeem'd
He would betray the truft! thus, o'er the feas
Hurried to meet my judges, I yet hop'd
Once more to vifit the delightful fpot

That gave me birth-to fhare, thro' racking pain-
Tho' death repay'd, a friend's laft lingering looks;
And bathe my bofom in parental tears,

And die in peace!'-He fpoke, and look'd around
In vain, for Mercy, thro' the prifon-gloom-
She beam'd not, there. Instead of Mercy's voice,
The fentence echoed; That, to Candia's ifle
Returning, he should lie, for one long year,
Chain'd to the defolated dungeon; thence,
(The term expir'd) to wander o'er its rocks
Thro' life an out-caft. Yet, one little space
The defpot's pity granted, for the throbs
Of filial duty from its fondeft joys
For ever torn. His age-bent parents came-
The venerable father-on whose brow
Hoar Time had scatter'd many a filver hair
Distinctly trac'd, and who full thirty years
Had worn the purple-the pale mother, wild
Thro' grief- My fon (exclaim'd the fire) 'tis thine
To bear thy fate with firmnefs!' 'Tis a fate,

‹ (An

(Anfwer'd the finking Fofcari) which I dread • Beyond the extremer agonies that rend

The struggling frame! O by this bursting heart
♦ Which ever own'd affection's pureft glow,
• Warm for a parent's welfare-by the tears
Of innocence, that afk a father's love
To give it yet unfullied to the world—
• O, by the mercies of a Saviour, fhield
Thy fon-nor let each folitary groan
• Beat-the flow knell of his departing foul!'
Alas! my Fofcari! my power were vain-
• Submit thee to thy country's laws'-the doge
Replies; and hurrying from his fon's embrace,
Shiver'd thro' mifery's keener pangs too sharp
To fuffer, 'till the chillness that benumbs
The fainting, ic'd his aged bofom o'er
Yet left life's feeble fpirit!-but to paint
The mother's form-O ye, whofe hearts have felt
The fond maternal yearnings-ye, whose eye
Hath caught the laft fir'd glances of your child
Juft finking into death's cold dews-'tis yours-
Severe preheminence! to paint that form.
At length, the dire disastrous story ran
Thro' Venice: and the accumulated woe
Touch'd the relenting fenate; while Remorse
That strove to borrow the benignant air
Of Mercy, the poor exile's pardon feal'd.
Strait flew the mandate of recall: (for long
In Candia's pris'n immur'd, the youth had mourn'd
His country loft-) But ah! too late the ray
Of Mercy glimmer'd. Lo the hapless youth,
Amidst his difmal durance as he breath'd

The folitary groan, on the drear wall

Had etch'd his tale of mis'ry and expir'd.

MON A. An ODE. By the fame Author, [An Original Communication.]

HROUD-in the billowy mift's deep-bofom fhroud

"SHR

"My ravish'd ifle!"the voice was vain!

Mona! mark yon' kindling cloud

That feems to fire the main :

As flashing to the incumbent skies,
Broad the hoftile flames arise
From the reverential wood;
Red its central gloom with blood!
Many a white-rob'd Druid hoar
Totters in the stream of gore;
Meets the falchion's furious blow;
Sinking, execrates the foe!

HILE Charlotte confcious that he loves,

W Would hide the crimfon's tranfient hues

She veils the blush, which only proves
A heart to love and Corin true,
In erring maids that fondly ftray

A tinge as bright as thine we fee;
Yet clouded looks its fource betray
Unknown to innocence and thee.

No