And yield it to some channel's care,
With bed as smooth, and banks as fair;
Where shelter'd from the ruffling gale
The streams may steal along the vale,
And safely reach th' enchanted ground
Which Keswick's awful hills surround.
There slowly winding, let them stray
Along the scarcely sloping way,
Till, tir'd at last, their current dead,
They sink into their destin'd bed;
And shelter'd by yon flow'ry brake,
Mix, silent, with the peaceful lake.

These blessings, lovely Brook, be thine;
Such be thy course-and such be mine.

EPITAPH

On an unfortunate young Lady.

BY THE SAME.

A lingering struggle of misfortune past,
Here patient virtue found repose at last;

Unprais'd, unknown, with cheerful steps she stray'd
Through life's bleak wilds, and fortune's darkest shade;
Nor courted fame to lend one friendly ray,

To gild the dark'ning horrors of the way.

When fir'd with hope, or eager for applause,
The hero suffers in a public cause,

Unfelt, unheeded, falls misfortune's dart,

And fame's sweet echoes cheer the drooping heart.

The patriot's toils immortal laurels yield,

And death itself is envied in the field.

Her's was the humbler, yet severer fate,
To pine unnoticed in a private state;

Her's were the suff'rings which no laurels bring,
The generous labours which no muses sing,
The cares that haunt the parent and the wife,
And the still sorrows of domestic life.

What though no pageant o'er her humble earth,
Proelaim the empty honours of her birth!
What tho' around no sculptur'd columns rise,
No verse records the conquests of her eyes!
Yet here shall flow the poor's unbidden tear,
And feeble age shall shed his blessings here:

Here shall the virtues which her soul possess'd,
With sweet remembrance sooth a husband's breast:
And here in silent grief, shall oft repair
The helpless objects of her latest care,

Recall her worth, their adverse fate bemoan,
And in a mother's woes forget their own.

POEM OF KHOOSHHAUL.

Afghaun Poetry, by the Hon. Mountstuart Elphinstone.

WHENCE has this spring appear'd again,

Which has made the country all round one rose garden?

The anemone is there, the sweet herbs, the Iris, and the basil,

The jasmine, the daffodil, the narcissus, and pomegranate flower. The flowers of the spring are of all colours;

But the cheek of the red tulip glows most among them all.

The maidens have handfuls of roses in their bosoms.

The youths have bunches of flowers in their turbans.

The musician applies his bow to his cheghaunch,

And searches out the melodies of every string.
Come, O cup-bearer, bring full, full cups:
Let me be satiated with wine and revelry.
The Afghaun youth have reddened their hands,
As a falcon dyes its talons in the blood of its quarry.
They have made their white swords rosy with blood,
As a bed of tulips blooming in summer.

Amail Khaun and Derry a Khaun were the heroes.
Each emulous of the other.

They stained the valley of Kheiber with blood;

And poured the tumult (of war) on to Currupa.

Up to Currupa, and to Bajour, the mountains, and the plains
Trembled, as with an earthquake, again and again.

It is now five years that in those quarters,

Every day has been heard the clashing of bright swords.
Since I left that country, I am annihilated.

Am I dead, or are those around me dead?

I call aloud for troops till I am weary :

But those around me are deaf both to complaints and reproaches.

Had

Had I known the state of the Eusofzyes,

I should have preferred flying to Dumghaur.

The dogs of the Khuttuks would be better that the Eusofzyes,
Even if the Khuttuks themselves were no better than dogs.
The whole of the Afghauns, from Candahar to Attock,

Rely openly or secretly on each other's honour.

Yet, see how many battles have taken place in all quarters,
And yet the Eusofzyes have shewn no sense of shame.

The first battle was behind the hills,

Where forty thousand Moguls were cut to pieces.

Their wives, and their daughters, were the prisoners of the Afghauns, And strings on strings of horses, camels, and elephants were taken. The second was fought by Meer Hossein, in the Dooaub,

When his head was crushed like that of a snake.

After that, was the fight of the Fort of Nonshehra,

Which removed the intoxication from the head of the Moguls.
After it, came Jeswunt Sing, and Shoojaut Khaun,

Whom Amail defeated at Gundaub.

The sixth battle was with Mookurrum Khaun, and Shumsheer Khaun, Whom Amail cut up to his heart's content.

We have always hitherto been victorious in battle;

And therefore, henceforward, let us trust in the Lord.

Arungzebe, for the last year, has been encamped against us:
Disordered in his appearance, and perplexed in his mind.

All his nobles have fallen in battle;

And the soldiers who have perished, who can number?
The treasures of Hindostaun have been scattered abroad.
The red gold Mohurs have been sunk in the mountains.
No man would have found out, in eighteeen guesses,

That such transactions would have taken place in this country.
Yet, the King's malignity is not diminished;

Which formerly drew down the curse of his own father.

No dependance can be placed on the King,

For he has ill designs, and is false and treacherous.

No other issue can be discovered in this affair;

Either the Moguls must be annihilated, or the Afghauns undone.

If this be the course of the spheres which we see ;

If it be God's pleasure (that we perish), let this be the time.

The heavens do not always revolve in the same manner.

They are sometimes suited to the rose and sometimes to the thorn.
This time (of danger) is the time for honour.

Without honour, what would become of the Afghauns?
If they harbour any other thought, it is destruction.
There is no deliverance, but in the sword.

The Afghauns are better than the Moguls at the sword.
If the understanding of the Afghauns was awakened ;

If the Ooloosses would give their support to one another,
Kings would soon be prostrate before them.

But, dissension and concord, rashness and prudence,

Are all in the hand of God, who assigns to each man his share.
You will see what the Afreedees, Mohmends, and Shainwarrees

will do,

When the Mogul army has encamped in Ningrahaur.

I alone feel for the honour of our name;

While the Eusofzyes are cultivating their fields at their ease.

He that now is guilty of such want of spirit

Will see in the end the result of his conduct.

To my mind death is better than life,

When life can no longer be held with honour.

We are not to live for ever in this world :

But the memory of Khooshhaul Khuttuck will remain.

T. Bensley and Son,

Bolt-court, Ficet street, London.

FINIS.