"Twas then the youths from every plain and grove Adorn'd with mournful verse thy Silvia's bier; "Twas then the nymphs their votive garlands wove, And strew'd the fragrance of the youthful year. 'But why, alas! the tender scene display? Could Damon's foot the pious path decline? Ah, no! 'twas Damon first attuned his lay, And sure no sonnet was so dear as thine. Thus was I bosom'd in the peaceful grave, My placid ghost no longer wept its doom; When savage robbers every sanction brave,

And with outrageous guilt defraud the tomb. 'Shall my poor corse, from hostile realms convey'd, Lose the cheap portion of my native sands? Or, in my kindred's dear embraces laid,

Mourn the vile ravage of barbarian hands?

Say, would thy breast no deathlike torture feel, To see my limbs the felon's gripe obey? To see them gash'd beneath the daring steel? To crowds a spectre, and to dogs a prey? 'If Pæan's sons these horrid rites require,

If Health's fair science be by these refined; Let guilty convicts for their use expire,

And let their breathless corse avail mankind. 'Yet hard it seems, when Guilt's last fine is paid, To see the victim's corse denied repose; Now, more severe, the poor offenceless maid Dreads the dire outrage of inhuman foes.

'Where is the faith of ancient pagans fled? Where the fond care the wandering manes claim? Nature, instinctive, cries, "Protect the dead; And sacred be their ashes and their fame!"

prey:

Arise, dear youth! e'en now the danger calls; E'en now the villain snuffs his wonted See! see! I lead thee to yon sacred walls— Oh! fly to chase these human wolves away.'

REFLECTIONS,

SUGGESTED BY HIS SITUATION.

BORN near the scene for Kenelm's 1 fate renown'd,
I take my plaintive reed, and range the grove,
And raise my lay, and bid the rocks resound
The savage force of empire and of love.
Fast by the centre of yon various wild,
Where spreading oaks embower a Gothic fane,
Kendrida's arts a brother's youth beguiled;
There Nature urged her tenderest pleas in vain.
Soft o'er his birth, and o'er his infant hours,
The' ambitious maid could every care employ;
Then with assiduous fondness cropp'd the flowers,
To deck the cradle of the princely boy.
But soon the bosom's pleasing calm is flown;
Love fires her breast; the sultry passions rise:
A favour'd lover seeks the Mercian throne,
And views her Kenelm with a rival's eyes.

Kenelm, in the Saxon heptarchy, was heir to the kingdom of Mercia; but being very young at his father's death, was, by the artifices of his sister and her lover, deprived of his crown and life together. The body was found in a piece of ground near the top of Clent Hill, exactly facing Mr. Shenstone's house, near which place a church was afterwards erected to his memory, still used for divine worship, and called St. Kenelm's. See Plot's History of Staffordshire.

How kind were Fortune! ah, how just were Fate !
Would Fate or Fortune Mercia's heir remove!
How sweet to revel on the couch of state!
To crown at once her lover and her love!

See, garnish'd for the chase, the fraudful maid
To these lone hills direct his devious way;
The youth, all prone, the sister-guide obey'd,
Ill-fated youth! himself the destined prey.

But now, nor shaggy hill nor pathless plain
Forms the lone refuge of the silvan game,
Since Lyttelton has crown'd the sweet domain
With softer pleasures and with fairer fame.
Where the rough bowman urged his headlong steed,
Immortal bards, a polish'd race, retire;
And where hoarse scream'd the strepent horn suc-
ceed

The melting graces of no vulgar lyre.

See Thomson, loitering near some limpid well, For Britain's friend the verdant wreath prepare! Or, studious of revolving seasons, tell

How peerless Lucia made all seasons fair!

See*** from civic garlands fly,

And in these groves indulge his tuneful vein! Or from yon summit, with a guardian's eye, Observe how Freedom's hand attires the plain!

Here Pope !—ah, never must that towering mind To his loved haunts or dearer friend return! What art, what friendships! oh, what fame resign'd!

-In yonder glade I trace his mournful urn.

Where is the breast can rage or hate retain,
And these glad streams and smiling lawns be-

hold?

Where is the breast can hear the woodland strain,
And think fair Freedom well exchanged for gold?
Through these soft shades delighted let me stray,
While o'er my head forgotten suns descend!
Through these dear valleys bend my casual way,
Till setting life a total shade extend!

Here, far from courts, and void of pompous cares,
I'll muse how much I owe mine humbler fate;
Or shrink to find how much Ambition dares,
To shine in anguish, and to grieve in state!

Canst thou, O Sun! that spotless throne disclose,
Where her bold arm has left no sanguine stain?
Where, show me where, the lineal sceptre glows,
Pure as the simple crook that rules the plain?
Tremendous pomp! where hate, distrust, and fear,
In kindred bosoms solve the social tie;
There not the parent's smile is half sincere,
Nor void of art the consort's melting eye.

There with the friendly wish, the kindly flame,
No face is brighten'd and no bosoms beat;
Youth, Manhood, Age, avow one sordid aim,

And e'en the beardless lip essays deceit.

There coward Rumours walk their murderous round;

The glance that more than rural blame instils : Whispers that, tinged with friendship, doubly wound;

Pity that injures, and concern that kills.

There anger whets, but love can ne'er engage;
Caressing brothers part but to revile;
There all men smile, and Prudence warns the
sage
To dread the fatal stroke of all that smile.

There all are rivals! sister, son, and sire,

With horrid purpose hug destructive arms; There soft-eyed maids in murderous plots conspire, And scorn the gentler mischief of their charms. Let servile minds one endless watch endure!

Day, night, nor hour, their anxious guard resign; But lay me, Fate! on flowery banks secure, Though my whole soul be, like my limbs, supine. Yes; may my tongue disdain a vassal's care; My lyre resound no prostituted lays; More warm to merit, more elate to wear

The cap of Freedom than the crown of bays.

Sooth'd by the murmurs of my pebbled flood,
I wish it not o'er golden sands to flow;
Cheer'd by the verdure of my spiral wood,

I scorn the quarry where no shrub can grow. No midnight pangs the shepherd's peace pursue; His tongue, his hand, attempts no secret wound; He sings his Delia; and, if she be true,

His love at once and his ambition's crown'd.