the crash.

Of rifted ice!--Oh, man of woe!
O'er his dear cot--a mass of snow,
By the storm sever'd from the cliff above,
Has fall'n--and buried in its marble breast,
All that for him--lost wretch--the world possest,
His home, his happiness, his love!

Aghast the heartstruck mourner stands!
Glaz'd are his eyes--convuls'd his hands,
O'erwhelming anguish checks his labouring breath;
Crush'd by Despair's intolerable weight,
Frantic he seeks the mountain's giddiest height,
And headlong seeks relief in death.

A fate too similar is mine,
But I--in ling'ring pain repine,
And still my last felicity deplore;
Cold, cold to me is that dear breast become,
Where this poor heart had fondly fix'd its home,
And love and happiness are mine no more.

_N. Y. Mag., or Lit. Repos._, III-443, July 1792, N. Y.

ELLA. A TALE.

_Lady's Mag. and Repos._, I-97, Jan. 1793, Phila.

[Also in _N. Y. Mag. or Lit. Repos._, II-235, Apr. 1791, N. Y.]

A GENERAL VIEW OF SWITZERLAND AND THE ALPS,
WITH AN AFFECTING ANECDOTE.

* * * * *

But to return to our Alps. Here, savage rocks of an inaccessible
height; there, torrents bursting, as it were, from the clouds, and
rolling down the rugged precipices:

The gay train,
Of fog, thick roll'd into romantic shape,

may, perhaps, excite your wonder, but not exceed the compass of your
imagination. But how shall I convey to you an idea of the ever-varying
and accidental beauties of this majestic scenery! Sometimes the
vapour-winged tempest, flitting along some lonely vale, embrowns it
with a solemn shade, whilst every thing around glitters in the
fullness of meridian splendour. On a sudden, all is dark and gloomy;
the thunder rolls from rock to rock, till echo seems tired with the
dreadful repetition: add to this, the gradual approach of the evening,
the last gleam of sunshine fading on the mountain-brow, the lingering
twilight still warding off the veil of night, till the rising moon
just continues, in vision, a glimmering of its faded glories:

Now all's at rest--and ere the wearied swain
Rise to his labour on the upland lawn,
Shall not the muse from nature catch a strain,
To wake, and greet him at the morning dawn?

Oh! let her tell him that the