Page images
PDF
EPUB

128

Parnell is dead! nor leaves behind, on earth,
A name more rich in focial, patriot worth.
Nor place, nor title, fway'd his nobler mind;
Great as he fill'd them, greater he resign'd.
An empire's juft regret his hearfe attends,
Dear to his country, honour'd by her friends;
And long fhall filial tears, and Friendship's fighs,
Point to the facred spot where Farnell lies.

W

THE SHADE OF COLLINS.

AN ODE. BY J. H. L. HUNT.

Defcende cœlo, et dic age tibia
Regina longum, Calliope melos.

WHO fhall awake with magic fong
The wildly throbbing foul?
Who dart the Mufe's light along,

And bid her thunders roll?
Or who with strain of gentlest note,
In low and liquid warblings float,
Soft Stealing through the filent air;
While Pity breathes her mildeft lay,
And from her eye's Aprilian ray
Slow drops a quiv'ring tear?
Rude Madness, idiot King of Pow'r,
Who from the Mufe's breaft
Tore him that in her facred bow'r
She knew and lov'd the best;
Stare not in gloomy filence more,
Rage all thy ftorms of paffion o'er,

And weave the wild'rings of the soul:
Pale Collins dropt his facred lyre:
He faw thy frenzied orbs of fire,
Thy meteor eyeballs roll *!

[ocr errors]

*It will be remembered that Collins fome time before his death

was confined in a private mad-house.

Sublimity's

Sublimity's enraptur'd child,
Say, whither art thou fled?
Gone to awake with mufic wild

The flumbers of the dead?
Or dost thou still, oh tearful bard,
Lorn Melancholy's wand'rings guard
In fome remote and folemn grove;
With dewy garlands deck the grave
Where Freedom lulls her hapless brave,
Or drefs the tomb of Love?

Lorn tearful bard, whose wild-wove lay
Each thrilling paffion fung;
When Mufic now flow died away,
Now wild and warlike rung;
I fee, I fee thy folemn fhade

Quick Starting from yon haunted glade,
With treffes toft, and eyes that weep;
High o'er the gulf fcreams Danger loud,
And Fear on phantoms wrapt in cloud
Howls dreadfully and deep!

Fell Anger with his clenching hand
Rude dashes on thy lyre;

Wild throws it on the trembling land,
And grafps his torch of fire!
Look, look no more!-In murm'ring low
I hear the figh of forrow flow!

Sad Jealousy, away 't is thine!
Thy hollow fmile and burfting fob.
Too wildly bid my bofom throb :
I do not call thee mine!

Hark! 'tis Revenge, while thunders peal,
With blaft of threat'ning breath,
Calls on the fiends that darkling deal

The hidden point of Death!
Fierce as he winds the ftormy ftrain,
Rife vifages that writhe with pain,

And hands the purple steel that grafp: At each dread paufe wild groans Despair, And dying Pity on the air

Slow heaves a ling'ring gafp!
G 5

But founds arife more foft and sweet,
Melodioutly forlorn:

They breathe through yonder green retreat
From Melancholy's horn!

Ye glades, repeat the foothing found;
Ye runnels, fteal in warblings round.
From yonder gloom bright vifions break!
See, Hope her golden treffes wave;
And Joy, whofe fongs contentment gave,
The fmiling morn awake!

Soul-foothing bard, thy fhade appears
As fmiling as thy Mufe;

Thy cheek no longer pale with tears,
Thy hair impearl'd with dews.
Hark--Love to Mirth's enraptur'd strain
Trips gaily o'er the laughing plain,

And Zephyr breathes his fweetest tale;
Brifk Cheerfulness the note prolongs,
And Echo fills with mingling fongs
The bofom of the gale!

Sonl-foothing bard, in what bright fphere
Now breathes thy facred lyre?
What angel youths enraptur'd hear?
What heavenly themes infpire?
Thy hand no more fublimely flings
Impaffion'd horror on its ftrings-
Deep and majestically wild:
Peace breathes through ev'ry foften'd lay,
And Infpiration's gentleft ray

Plays round his warbling child!
Farewell, fweet bard-thy grave around
Shall ftill with flow'rs be dress'd,

While Sympathy and Love be found
To warm the human breaft!

There Truth and Friendship, hand in hand,
Shall dew with tears the blooming land,
And scatter wreaths of ev'ry hue!

Still as he goes, the Mufe would ftay,
Still feems to hear thy thrilling lay,
And weeps a laft adieu !

ELEGY,

ELEGY,

WRITTEN IN POETS' CORNER, WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

Dignum laude virum Mufa vetat mori..

NOW finks the hum confus'd of bufy Care,
And folemn Eve begins her placid reign;

Mild Contemplation mufes on the air,

And Silence bends before her vestal train!
In this cold folitude, this awful fhade,

Where fleeps the lyre of many a tuneful breath,
The ghaftly throud and duft-disturbing spade
Invite the fhudd'ring thought to gloom and death.
Yet, while my careful feet flow pace along
O'er the dumb tales of learning and of fame,
Remembrance fond recalls the Poet's fong,
And Admiration points the chifell'd name!
To boast the wonder of attentive crowds,
And wrap the foul in ecftafied applause;
To reach Eternity that fpurns the clouds,
And unlock Harmony's enchanting laws;
For this the Poet rolls his frenzied eye,

And wakens rapture with his fairy hand;
For this he warbles tranfport to the fky,
And pours enchantment o'er a thrilling land !
Live not, where Shakespeare lays his awful duft,
The marble records of immortal fame ?
Weeps not the Mufe o'er Rowe's beloved duft?

And fpeaks not Truth in Gay's untitled name?
Who boasts of kings, when bending o'er the fhade
Where lies the harp fublime of free-born Gray?
Who talks of pomp, or who of proud parade,
Where modeft Thomfon drops his fpotle's lay?
If courts are nobler than the Mufe divine,

Princes and lords had long ufurp'd the praise;
Some laurell'd Wilmot wanton'd but to fhine,
Some Henry hoarded for immortal bays.
G 6

Yet

Yet the no more fhall admiration high
Lift from the turf that triumphs o'er their clay;
For them no tear ftand quiv'ring in the eye,
For them no bofom figh its plaintive lay!
Unwept, unpitied, drooping to their doom,

They creep to death, nor leave a trace behind;
No mournful breath lamenting o'er their tomb,
But yon cold grafs that whiffles to the wind.
Ye gorgeous worms that glitter in the fun,

Ye worms of wealth, and vanity, and sway; Say, have ye aught of praise, of glory won, That thus ye flaunt along your gaudy way ? 'Tis not the glittering of the cherish'd hoard, Pomp's carv'd achievements, or the robe of Pow'r, 'Tis not the purple of a nation's lord

Can claim Futurity's emblazon'd hour!

Foul Av'rice watches but to gain a grave,

And haughty Pride muft bow to fhrinking Age:
Pow'r has not learnt the ftorms of Death to brave,
And Grandeur crumbles from her gorgeous stage!
The heart that loves, that is the friend of all,
And meek Humanity's unlordly breast:
These are the beams that glitter o'er the pall,
And fink refplendent, like the fun, to reft.
And ah! if e'er on them the Mufe's eye
Shed the bright influence of her heav'nly fire
Applaufe fhall live for ever where they lie,
And one eternal triumph be their lyre!

[ocr errors]

A MEDICAL ANECDOTE,

A N Apothecary, one of the Friends, meeting Dr. Fothergill in the street, accofted him in the following manner:-"Friend Fothergill, I intend dining with thee to-day."--" I fhall be glad to fee thee, replied the Doctor. "I intend bringing my family with me," fays the Apothecary.

[ocr errors]

"So much the better,

« ՆախորդըՇարունակել »