ELEGY.

TIRED with the busy crowds, that all the day
Impatient throng where Folly's altars flame,
My languid powers dissolve with quick decay,
"Till genial Sleep repair the sinking frame.

Hail, kind reviver! that canst lull the cares,
And every weary sense compose to rest,
Lighten th' oppressive load which anguish bears,
And warm with hope the cold desponding breast.

Touch'd by thy rod, from Power's majestic brow

Drops the gay plume; he pines a lowly clown; And on the cold earth stretch'd the son of Woe Quaffs Pleasure's draught, and wears a fancied crown.

When roused by thee, on boundless pinions borne
Fancy to fairy scenes exults to rove,
Now scales the cliff gay-gleaming on the morn,
Now sad and silent treads the deepening grove;

Or skims the main, and listens to the storms,
Marks the long waves roll far remote away;
Or mingling with ten thousand glittering forms,
Floats on the gale, and basks in purest day.

Haply, ere long, pierced by the howling blast, Through dark and pathless deserts I shall roam, Plunge down th' unfathom'd deep, or shrink aghast Where bursts the shrieking spectre from the tomb :

Perhaps, loose Luxury's enchanting smile

Shall lure my steps to some romantic dale,

Where Mirth's light freaks th' unheeded hours beguile, And airs of rapture warble in the gale.

Instructive emblem of this mortal state!
Where scenes as various every hour arise
In swift succession, which the hand of Fate
Presents, then snatches from our wondering eyes.

Be taught, vain man, how fleeting all thy joys,
Thy boasted grandeur, and thy glittering store;
Death comes, and all thy fancied bliss destroys,
Quick as a dream it fades, and is no more.

And, sons of Sorrow! though the threatening storm
Of angry Fortune overhang awhile,

Let not her frowns your inward peace deform;
Soon happier days in happier climes shall smile.

Through Earth's throng'd visions while we toss forlorn, 'Tis tumult all, and rage, and restless strife;

But these shall vanish like the dreams of morn,
When Death awakes us to immortal life.

ELEGY.

EXULTS the fluttering heart, O Mortal-born,
If Fame pronounce thee beautiful and wise,
If pompous blazonry thy name adorn!—
Approach, with trembling awe, where .

...

lies;

And pause; and know thy boasted honours vain.
Vain all the gifts that fortune can bestow.
Late shone around Her all the gorgeous train,

But shine not round the mouldering dust below.

Gazed at from far by Envy's lifted eye

What then avails to deck th' exalted scene,
If there the blasting storms of anguish fly,
If Frailty there displays her withering mien?

But Virtue (sacred plant !) no soil disdains;
The plant that Frailty's fiercest frown defies.
Retired it blooms amid the lowly plains;

Or decks the mountain's brow that mates the skies.

And there conspicuous forms the Pilgrim's bower,
When Sorrow darts direct the feverish ray;
And forms his shelter from the tempest's power
In stern Oppression's desolating day.

This, Grandeur, be thy praise; 'tis more than fame.
This praise was hers; yet not to this confined,
Hers was th' indulgent soul untaught to blame,
Hers all the graces of the mildest mind.

Slight is your wound, who mourn a Guardian lost,

Though grief's sharp sting now prompt the pious sigh;

He lives, the friend of man, the Muses boast,

And Bounty's hand shall wipe your streaming eye.

But ah! what balm shall heal his bleeding heart,
Who for the Friend, and for the Lover mourns!

Of all the joys that friendship can impart,

When love's divinest flame united burns,

Possess'd so late! but now possess'd no more!-
Thus triumphs Fate o'er all that charms below;
Thus curbs the storm till joy's meridian hour,
To wrap the smiling scene in darker woe.

Sole object of a Mother's tender care,

Could aught of song avail to ease thy pain; Or charm a Parent's, Sister's, Friend's despair;

Fain would the Muse attempt some soothing strain.

But what can soothe, when Hope denies her aid!
Far in the silent depth of yonder gloom,

Where the weak lamp wan wavers o'er the dead,
She hides in sable dust her sparkling plume.

T'enrage their smart, Remembrance wakes severe,
And bids the vanish'd years again to roll;
Again they seem that soothing voice to hear,
Again those looks shoot transport to the soul.

The vision flies, and leaves the mind to mourn,
Saddening each scene that pleased while she was by;
For ah! those vanish'd years no more return;
Mute the soft voice, and closed the gentle eye.

Come, Resignation, with uplifted brow,

And eye of rapture smiling though in tears; Come, for thou lov'st the silent house of woe, When no fond friend th' abandon'd mansion cheers.

Come, for 'tis thine to soothe the Mourner's smart,
The throbs of hopeless anguish to control,

With healing balm to point Death's levell'd dart,
And melt in heavenly dreams the parting soul.

We mark'd thy triumphs in that hour of dread;
When from her eyes, that look'd a last adieu,
Each weeping friend seem'd vanishing in shade,
And darkening slow the swimming scene withdrew.

"Twas then her pale cheek caught thy rapturous smile,

Thy cheering whispers calm'd her labouring breast, And hymns of quiring angels charm'd the while; Till the weak frame dissolved in endless rest.

THE WOLF AND SHEPHERDS.

A FABLE.

LAWS, as we read in ancient sages,
Have been like cobwebs in all ages.
Cobwebs for little flies are spread,
And laws for little folks are made;
But if an insect of renown,
Hornet or beetle, wasp or drone,
Be caught in quest of sport or plunder,
The flimsy fetter flies in sunder.

Your simile perhaps may please one
With whom wit holds the place of reason:
But can you prove that this in fact is
Agreeable to life and practice?

Then hear, what in his simple way

Old Æsop told me t'other day.

In days of yore, but (which is very odd)
Our author mentions not the period,
We mortal men, less given to speeches,
Allow'd the beasts sometimes to teach us
But now we all are prattlers grown,
And suffer no voice but our own:
With us no beast has leave to speak,
Although his honest heart should break.
"Tis true, your asses and your apes,
And other brutes in human shapes,