At this high summons, with undaunted zeal,
He bares his breast, invites th' impending steel,
Smiles at the hand that deals the fatal blow,
Nor heaves one sigh for all he leaves below.
Nor yet doth Glory, though her port be bold,
Her aspect radiant, and her tresses gold,
Guide through the walks of Death alone her car,
Attendant only on the din of War:
She ne'er disdains the gentle vale of Peace,
Or olive shades of philosophic ease,
Where heav'n-taught minds to woo the Muse resort,
Create in colours, or with sounds transport;
More pleas'd on Isis' silent marge to roam,
Than bear in pomp the spoils of Minden home.
To read with Newton's ken the starry sky,
And God the same in all his orbs descry;
To lead forth Merit from her humble shade;
Extend to rising Arts a patron's aid;
Build the nice structure of the gen'rous Law,
That holds the free born mind in willing awe;
To swell the sail of Trade; the barren plain
To bid with fruitage blush, and wave with grain;
O'er pale Misfortune drop, with anxious sigh,
Pity's mild balm, and wipe Affliction's eye;
These, these are deeds Britannia must approve,
Must nurse their growth with all a parent's love :
These are the deeds that public Virtue owns,
And, just to public Virtue, Glory crowns.
On a young Lady, who died in a Consumption in 1796.
HERE, in the cold embrace of death,
What once was elegance and beauty lies: Mute is the music of her tuneful breath, And quench'd the radiance of her sparkling eyes.
A prey to ling'ring malady she fell,
Ere yet her form had lost its vernal bloom: Her virtues, Mis'ry oft reliev'd may tellThe rest, let silent Charity entomb;
Nor suffer busy unrelenting Zeal,
E'en here, her gentle frailties to pursue : Let Envy turn from what it cannot feel,
And Malice rev'rence what it never knew.
But should the justice of the good and wise
Condemn her faults with judgment too severe;
Let mild-eyed Pity from the heart arise,
And blot the rigid sentence with a tear.
STANZAS ON CHATTERTON,
Occasioned by reading the Verses, entitled "Resignation," written by him a few Days before his unfortunate end. The Name of ROWLEY, in which CHATTERTON wrote the most beautiful of his Poems, being more melodious than his own, has been adopted in the following Lines:
DYING Swan of Pindus sings
In wildly mournful strains;
As Death's cold fingers snap the strings,
His suffering Lyre complains.
Soft as the mist of evening wends
Along the shadowy vale;
Sad as in storms the moon ascends,
And turns the darkness pale.
So soft the melting numbers flow
From ROWLEY'S trembling lips;
So sad his woe-wan features shew,
Just fading in eclipse.
The Bard, to grim despair resign'd,
With his expiring art
Sings, 'midst the tempest of his mind,
The shipwreck of his heart.
If Hope still seem to linger nigh,
And rest on ROWLEY's head,
Her pinions are too weak to fly,
Of Hope ere now had fled.
Ah! who can listen to thy songs,
Nor burn to share thy fire?
Ah! who, fond youth! can read thy wrongs,
Nor execrate the Lyre?
The Lyre, that sunk thee to the grave,
All bursting into bloom;
That Lyre the power to genius gave
To blossom in the tomb.
Yes! till his memory fail with years,
Shall TIME thy strains recite;
Oft shall thy story swell his tears,
Thy song amuse his flight.
Which professes not to lie.
STRANGER! if e'er thy pierced soul did bend
O'er the cold reliques of some valued friend,
If e'er by thee were shed the grateful tear
Of filial fondness on a parent's bier,
Hence--for beneath this turf doth sadly rest
One by life's charities and hopes unblest,
Self-exil'd he from all that mortals prize,
Lo! on the couch of agony he lies;
Mid alien-arms resigns his painful breath,
Unlov'd while living, and unmourn'd in death!
FROM THE LATIN OF PONTANUS.
DAMSEL! fairer than the rose
That buds when vernal zephyr blows,
And swells in crimson to the view,
When moistened by the morning dew;
Come, mark with me thy emblem flower,
When glows the sultry noon-tide hour.
Come, see how feeble, faint, and dead,
It gently bows its drooping head,
And falls, and withers on the plain.
Damsel! thus brief is Beauty's reign :-
Pass some few years, and Age fhall trace
His wrinkles in thy fading face:
His touch shall dim thy glossy hair,
Thy ivory teeth, thy forehead fair.
No cestus, bright with gems and gold,
Thy swelling breasts shall then enfold;
No crowds of suitors then shall wait
With garlands trim to deck thy gate;
But dull and dreary o'er thy bow'r
Shall pass the lonely midnight hour.
Come, then, enjoy the vernal day,
And crop with me the flowers of May;
With silent wing Time speeds his flight,
And wafts us swift to endless night!
Come, then, my fair, and whilst we prove
The dear delights of mutual love,
Let glowing Venus beam from far
Our morning and our evening star.
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