Angelic maid, again strike the wrapt wire, Let music’s softest notes flow from thy lyre; With sweet vibrations cut the liquid air, And banish from our souls corroding care; For when thy flowing numbers ride the gale, The woe-struck heart forgets her tragic tale; To black-rob’d melancholy bid adieu, We catch the rapturous sound, and only think of you. EMMA. NEW-YORK _Sept. 24, 1796_. * * * * * _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._ * * * SONNET. Thou fading mount, whose variegated brow The rage of rude autumnal blasts betrays, How justly emblematical art thou Of life’s dire changes, and its sad decays. When on the pensive visage time pourtrays His stealing languor, and the sickning heart, Dead to the smiles of joy, and charms of art, To blooming hope, and pleasure’s soft controul, No more with sweet emotion can impart A gleam of comfort to the chearless soul; Still holds the allusion when thy honours bow Beneath the early storm’s despoiling rage, And sad affliction, life consuming woe, Forestals the influence of declining age. MATILDA. MONTREAL. * * * * * THE CAPTIVE’S COMPLAINT. (_Inscribed to Anna._) Hark, the chains rattle round as I turn on my side, And the pains of captivity now are my doom; My cell and my bed are scarcely as wide As yon willow-tree grave I discern through the gloom. I was borne from my home, the frail child of despair, O’er the main I was driv’n, whose limits are wide; The winds and the waves all augmented my care, And the chains of injustice hung hard by my side. The tyrant, stern grief, my little children attends, And tears from their eyes impatiently glide; They weep and they mourn without comforting friends, While I in despair shake the chains by my side. The days and the nights too slow pass away, And death, though hard by, my pains won’t decide; Oh! why will he pause and his purpose delay, For the chains rattle hard which cling to my side. The morning may dawn when the Heav’ns more kind, May unfetter the pris’ner whose anguish is wide; Shake those chains far away, and give ease to a mind Grown callous by grief, and the chains of his side. L. LE FEVRE. PINE-STREET, _Sept. 23, 1796_. NEW-YORK: _+Printed by JOHN BULL, No. 115, Cherry-Street+, where every Kind of Printing work is executed with the utmost Accuracy and Dispatch.--+Subscriptions+ for this +Magazine+ (at 2s. per month) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and by E. MITCHELL, Bookseller, No. 9, Maiden-Lane._ * * * * * * * * * * * * * * _UTILE DULCI._ THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE; or, Miscellaneous Repository. +Vol. II.+] +Wednesday, October 5, 1796.+ [+No. 66.+