EPITAPH.

Here rests his head beneath the barren soil,

An Author, once to wits and patrons known; The Critics frown'd not on his humble toil, Nor did the world his labours quite disown.

Large his editions, but his readers few ;
Fate did a recompence as largely send :
He wisely bade to Booksellers adieu,

And in the Chandler found a readier friend.

No longer now pil'd up in useless state,
His pages freely circulate thro' town:
Perhaps, at last, doom'd by capricious fate

To kindle pipes, or curl some crazy crown.

C.

The HAUNTED BEACH.

By Mrs. ROBINSON.

Upon a lonely desart beach,

Where the white foam was scatter'd,

A little shed uprear'd its head,

Tho' lofty barks were shatter'd!

The sea-weeds gathering near the door, A sombre path display'd,

And, all around, the deafening roar

Re-echo'd on the chalky shore,

Above, a jutting cliff was seen,

Where sea-birds hover'd, craving, And all around, the craggs were bound With weeds, for ever waving; And, here and there, a cavern wide Its shadowy jaws display'd, And near the sand, at ebb of tide, A shatter'd mast was seen to ride,

Where the green billows stray'd.

And often, while the morning wind
Stole o'er the summer ocean;

The moonlight scene was all serene,
The waters scarce in motion,
Then, while the smoothly slanting sand
The tall cliff wrapp'd in shade,
The FISHERMAN beheld a band

Of SPECTRES, gliding hand in hand,
Where the green billows play'd!

And pale their faces were, as snow!
And sullenly they wander'd!

And to the skies, with hollow eyes,

They look'd, as tho' they ponder'd ! And sometimes from their hammock shroud, They dismal howlings made!

And while the blast blew strong and loud, The clear MooN mark'd the ghastly crowd, Where the green billows play'd!

And then, above the haunted hut,
The CURLEWS, screaming, hover'd:
And the low door, with furious roar,
The frothy breakers cover'd.
For, in the FISHERMAN's lone shed,
A MURDER'D MAN was laid,
With ten wide gashes on his head,
And deep was made his sandy bed,
Where the green billows played.

The SPECTRE band, his MESSMATES bold,
Sunk in the yawning ocean!
While to the mast, he lash'd him fast,
And brav'd the storm's commotion !
The winter Moon upon the sand

A silvery carpet made,

And mark'd the sailor reach the landAnd mark'd his MURDERER wash his hand,

Where the green billows play'd!

And since that hour the FISHERMAN
Has toil'd, and toil'd in vain!
For all the night, the moony light
Gleams on the SPECTRED main!

And when the skies are veil'd in gloom,
The Murderer's liquid way

Bounds o'er the deeply yawning tomb, And flashing fires the sands illume Where the green billows play.

Full thirty years his task has grown,
Day after day, more weary;
For Heaven design'd his guilty mind
Should feed on prospects dreary!
Bound by a strong and mystic chain,
He has not power to stray,
But destin'd MISERY to sustain,
He wastes, in solitude and pain,
A LOATHSOME LIFE AWAY!