The Providence Journal, And Town And Country Advertiser

Original poetry.

For the Providence Journal.

Madam or Sir:

Should you deem the following imperfect Lines worthy
of place in your Poetical Department, you will please to insert
them.

MILD planet of the night! I love thee well
For well I know thy soft, thy chastening power;
With pensive joy I hail the peaceful hour,
When thy bright beams illume the dusky dell.

Or when, arising o'er some rocky steep,
Thy rays give beauty to the darksome shade;
Pour their mild radiance o'er the lonely glade,
Or tremble on the undulating deep.

Emblem of peace, thou shedd'st thy borrow'd light
To guide the weary wanderer on his way:
Protected by thy mild, thy cheering ray.
He dares to travel midst the shades of night.

Thy crested form the lively rustic loves:
When in the west declines the setting sun,
And all the labours of the day are done,
On the green grass with lightsome step he moves.

When lonely silence reigns throughout the glade,
Alone disturb'd by Philomel's soft notes,
The youthful lover woos his smiling maid,
While on the breeze the plaintive music floats.

Reclin'd beside some gently murmuring rill,
Raptur'd, he listens to the melting lay,
Eyes the bright form, slow rising o'er the hill,
While he, enchanted, sighs his soul away.

For me! I hate the glaring orb of day;
But when still Night begins her silent reign
When thy white beams across the water play,
And no rude noise disturbs the gray-plum'd swain;

Delighted then, I quit my gloomy cell,
And climb the towering mountain's misty brow.
I seek, with pensive step, the flowery dell,
Where first Eliza heard my artless vow.

She heard, and smil'd--I thought the maid sincere,
And sought, ecstatic happiness was mine;
No dark, forth-boding doubt, no anxious fear,
No black suspicion of some fell design,

Disturb'd my bliss--for, ah! I thought full well
The treacherous maid was true to virtue's charms;
But while her tongue a flattering tale could tell,
A base-born menial clasp'd her in his arms.

Yes, in a myrtle bower, supine they laid.
Sooth'd by the songsters from a neighbouring grove,
I caught him circling round the wanton maid,
While pleas'd she listen'd to his tales of love.

Swift from its scabbard flew my faithful sword.
Not all her prayers, not all her tears could save:
By rage and fury urg'd, his breast I gored,
And plung'd him instant in a dreary grave.

To Heav'n the fair one rais'd her streaming eyes,
Then on her lover turn'd their mournful view;
Her bosom heav'd with often sighs,
While from his vest a pointed steel she drew.

With this she pierc'd her breast; while from the wound
The gushing torrent pour'd its crimson tide:
She sunk beside her lover on the ground,
And, pressing his cold lips with rapture, died.

Though faithless to the love which she avow'd,
Yet did Pity her untimely doom---
In the first morning of her life, to shroud
Her opening beauties in the silent tomb!

Near yonder shadowy, solitary vale,
Where the swift river pours its murmuring wave,
Where the sad raven croaks her mournful tale,
Remain the lovers in one humble grave.

EDWIN.