1782.-----THE CONSECRATED SPOT.
Utter a word, oh ye streets! Wilt thou not, Genius, awake?All that thy sacred walls, eternal Rome, hold within them
With joy it bursts its thrall,
By the cruel, heartless quire;
1819.-----THE FAVOURED BEASTS.
'Tis to it I owe the shade;Soon will storms its bloom destroy,
1815.*-----THE STORK'S VOCATION.
And thoult win her, take my word;He who's quick and saucy too,
PAGE.I'll follow thee soon;When the sun burns at noonWe'll go there, o'urselves from his rays to hide,And then in some glade all-verdant and deep--