A visage so sad, and so pale with affright,

Waked Priam, in drawing his curtains by night.

But we quickly found out for who could mistake her?
That she came with some terrible news from the baker;
And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven

Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven.
Sad Philomel thus,—but let similes drop,-
And, now that I think on 't, the story may stop.
To be plain, my good Lord, it's but labor misplaced,
To send such good verses to one of your taste.
You've got an odd something,— a kind of discerning,—
A relish, a taste,- sickened over by learning,-
At least it's your temper, as very well known,
That you think very slightly of all that's your own;
So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss,
You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this.

THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS.

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER LATE ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES, 1772.

Overture. A solemn dirge.

Air.- Trio.

ARISE, ye sons of worth, arise,
And waken every note of woe;
When truth and virtue reach the skies,
'T is ours to weep the want below!

Chorus.

When truth and virtue reach the skies,
'T is ours to weep the want below!

MAN speaker.

The praise attending pomp and power,
The incense given to kings,

Are but the trappings of an hour—
Mere transitory things!

The base bestow them; but the good agree
To spurn the venal gifts as flattery.

But when to pomp and power are joined
An equal dignity of mind-

When titles are the smallest claim

When wealth, and rank, and noble blood,

But aid the power of doing good

Then all their trophies last; and flattery turns to fame. Blessed spirit thou, whose fame, just born to bloom,

Shall spread and flourish from the tomb,

How hast thou left mankind for heaven! Even now reproach and faction mourn, And, wondering how their rage was borne, Request to be forgiven.

Alas! they never had thy hate;

Unmoved, in conscious rectitude,
Thy towering mind self-centred stood,
Nor wanted man's opinion to be great.
In vain, to charm thy ravished sight,

A thousand gifts would fortune send;
In vain, to drive thee from the right,

A thousand sorrows urged thy end:

Like some well-fashioned arch thy patience stood,
And purchased strength from its increasing load.
Pain met thee like a friend that set thee free;
Affliction still is virtue's opportunity!

Song. — By a MaN.

Virtue, on herself relying,
Every passion hushed to rest,
Loses every pain of dying,

In the hopes of being blest.

Every added pang she suffers
Some increasing good bestows,
Every shock that malice offers
Only rocks her to repose.

WOMAN speaker.

Yet, ah! what terrors frowned upon her fate-
Death, with its formidable band,
Fever, and pain, and pale consumptive care,
Determined took their stand.

Nor did the cruel ravagers design

To finish all their efforts at a blow;
But, mischievously slow,

They robbed the relic and defaced the shrine.

With unavailing grief,
Despairing of relief,

Her weeping children round

Beheld each hour

Death's growing power,

And trembled as he frowned.

As helpless friends who view from shore

The laboring ship, and hear the tempest roar,

While winds and waves their wishes cross

They stood, while hope and comfort fail,

Not to assist, but to bewaii

The inevitable loss.

Relentless tyrant, at thy call

How do the good, the virtuous, fall!

Truth, beauty, worth, and all that most engage,
But wake thy vengeance, and provoke thy rage!

Song. — By a MaN.

When vice my dart and scythe supply,
How great a king of terrors I!

If folly, fraud, your hearts engage,
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!

Fall, round me fall, ye little things;
Ye statesmen, warriors, poets, kings!
If virtue fail her counsel sage,
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!

MAN speaker.

Yet let that wisdom, urged by her example,
Teach us to estimate what all must suffer;
Let us prize death as the best gift of nature;
As a safe inn, where weary travellers,

When they have journeyed through a world of cares,
May put off life and be at rest forever.

Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy sables, May oft distract us with their sad solemnity:

The preparation is the executioner.

Death, when unmasked, shows me a friendly face, And is a terror only at a distance ;

For as the line of life conducts me on

To death's great court, the prospect seems more fair. 'T is nature's kind retreat, that's always open

To take us in when we have drained the cup
Of life, or worn our days to wretchedness.
In that secure, serene retreat,

Where all the humble, all the great,
Promiscuously recline;

Where, wildly huddled to the eye,

The beggar's pouch and prince's purple lie,
May every bliss be thine!

And, ah! blessed spirit, wheresoe'er thy flight,
Through rolling worlds, or fields of liquid light,
May cherubs welcome their expected guest;
May saints with songs receive thee to their rest:
May peace, that claimed while here thy warmest love,
May blissful, endless peace, be thine above!

Song. By a woman.

Lovely, lasting peace below,
Comforter of every woe,

Heavenly born, and bred on high,
To crown the favorites of the sky -
Lovely, lasting peace appear;
This world itself, if thou art here,
Is once again with Eden blessed,
And man contains it in his breast.

WOMAN speaker.

Our vows are heard! long, long to mortal eyes,
Her soul was fitting to its kindred skies:

Celestial-like her bounty fell,

Where modest want and patient sorrow dwell;

Want passed for merit at her door,

Unseen the modest were supplied,