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dress ye;

My Fathers! the tears of your country re- | No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, But living statues there are seen to weep; Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb,

How you fought! how you died! still her annals can tell.

On Marston, with Rupert 'gainst traitors contending,

Four brothers enrich'd with their blood the bleak field;

For the rights of a monarch, their country defending,

Till death their attachment to royalty seal'd.

Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant, departing

From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu!

Abroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting

New courage, he'll think upon glory and you.

Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation,

'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret ;

Far distant he goes, with the same emulation, The fame of his Fathers he ne'er can forget.

That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish,

He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your

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Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom. What though thy sire lament his failing line, A father's sorrows cannot equal mine! Though none, like thee, his dying hour will cheer,

Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here: But, who with me shall hold thy former place?

Thine image, what new friendship can efface?

Ah, none! a father's tears will cease to flow, Time will assuage an infant-brother's woe; To all, save one, is consolation known, While solitary Friendship sighs alone.

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THE TEAR.

O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros
Ducentium ortus ex animo; quater
Felix! in imo qui scatentem
Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit.
GRAY.

WHEN Friendship or Love
Our sympathies move;
When Truth, in a glance, should appear,
The lips may beguile,

With a dimple or smile,
But the test of affection's a Tear.

Too oft is a smile

But the hypocrite's wile,
To mask detestation, or fear;
Give me the soft sigh,

Whilst the soul-telling eye
Is dimm'd, for a time, with a Tear.

Mild Charity's glow,
To us mortals below,

Shows the soul from barbarity clear;

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For a last look I turn'd,

Which the children of vanity rear;

No fiction of fame

Shall blazon my name,

All I ask, all I wish, is a Tear.

ON THE DEATH OF MB. FOX

The following illiberal Impromptu appeared in a Morning-Paper.

"OUR Nation's foes lament on Fox's death, But bless the hour when PITT resign'd his breath; These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth unclue, We give the palm where Justice points it due."

To which the Author of these Pieces sent the following Reply.

On! factious viper! whose envenom'd tooth Would mangle still the dead, perverting truth;

What, though our "nation's foes" lament the fate,

With generous feeling, of the good and great;

Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the

name

But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear. Of him, whose meed exists in endless fame?

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When PITT expired, in plenitude of power,
Though ill success obscured his dying hour,
Pity her dewy wings before him spread,
For noble spirits "war not with the dead."
His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gave,
As all his errors slumber'd in the grave;
He sunk, an Atlas, bending 'neath the weight
Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state;
When, lo! a Hercules, in Fox, appear'd,
Who, for a time, the ruin'd fabric rear'd;
He, too, is fall'n, who Britain's loss supplied;
With him, our fast reviving hopes have died:
Not one great people only raise his urn,
All Europe's far extended regions mourn.
"These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth
unclue,

To give the palm where Justice points it due;"

Yet let not canker'd calumny assail, Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil.

Fox! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep, Whose dear remains in honour'd marble sleep,

For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan, While friends and foes alike his talents own, Fox shall, in Britain's future annals, shine, Nor e'en to PITT the patriot's palm resign, Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mask, For PITT, and PITT alone, has dared to ask.

AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE,

delivered previous to the performance of "The Wheel of Fortune," at a private theatre.

SINCE the refinement of this polish'd age
Has swept immoral raillery from the stage;
Since taste has now expunged licentious wit,
Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author
writ;

Since, now, to please with purer scenes we seek,

Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek;

Oh! let the modest Muse some pity claim, And meet indulgence though she find not fame.

Still, not for her alone we wish respect,
Others appear more conscious of defect;
To-night, no Veteran Roscii you behold,
In all the arts of scenic action old;
NO COOKE, NO KEMBLE, can salute you here,
NO SIDDONS draw the sympathetic_tear;
To-night, you throng to witness the debut,
Of embryo-Actors, to the drama new.
Here, then, our almost unfledged wings
we try;

Clip not our pinions, ere the birds can fly;
Failing in this our first attempt to soar,
Drooping, alas! we fall to rise no more.
Not one poor trembler, only, fear betrays,
Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet
your praise,

But all our Dramatis Personæ wait,
In fond suspense, this crisis of their fate.
No venal views our progress can retard,
Your generous plaudits are our sole reward;
For these each Hero all his power displays,
Each timid Heroine shrinks before your
gaze:

Surely, the last will some protection find,
None, to the softer sex, can prove unkind;
Whilst Youth and Beauty form the female
shield,

The sternest Censor to the fair must yield. Yet should our feeble efforts nought avail, Should, after all, our best endeavours fail; Still, let some mercy in your bosoms live, And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive.

Then read, dear Girl, with feeling read,
For thou wilt ne'er be one of those;
To thee in vain I shall not plead,
In pity for the Poet's woes.

He was, in sooth, a genuine bard;

His was no faint fictitious flame; Like his, may love be thy reward, But not thy hapless fate the samé.

TO M

On! did those eyes, instead of fire,
With bright, but mild affection shine:
Though they might kindle less desire,
Love, more than mortal, would be thine.

For thou art form'd so heavenly fair, Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam, We must admire, but still despair :

That fatal glance forbids esteem.

When nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth,
So much perfection in thee shone,
She fear'd, that, too divine for earth,
The skies might claim thee for their own.

Therefore, to guard her dearest work,
Lest angels might dispute the prize,
She bade a secret lightning lurk

Within those once celestial eyes.

These might the boldest sylph appal,
When gleaming with meridian blaze;
Thy beauty must enrapture all,
But who can dare thine ardent gaze?

'Tis said, that Berenice's hair

In stars adorns the vault of heaven; But, they would ne'er permit thee there, Thou wouldst so far outshine the seven.

For, did those eyes as planets roll,

Thy sister-lights would scarce appear: E'en suns, which systems now controul, Would twinkle dimly through their sphere.

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How prompt are striplings to believe her! | Yet, it could not be Love, for I knew not

How throbs the pulse, when first we view
The eye that rolls in glossy blue,
Or sparkles black, or mildly throws

A beam from under hazel brows!

How quick we credit every oath,
And hear her plight the willing troth!
Fondly we hope 'twill last for aye,
When, lo! she changes in a day.
This record will for ever stand,
"Woman! thy vows are traced in sand."

TO M. S. G.

WHEN I dream that you love me, you'll surely forgive,

Extend not your anger to sleep; For in visions alone your affection can live; I rise, and it leaves me to weep.

Then, Morpheus! envelope my faculties fast, Shed o'er me your languor benign; Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last,

What rapture celestial is mine!

the name;

What passion can dwell in the heart of a child?

But, still, I perceive an emotion the same As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild:

One image, alone, on my bosom imprest,
I loved my bleak regions,nor panted for new;
And few were my wants, for my wishes
were blest,

And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with you.

I arose with the dawn; with my dog as my guide, From mountain to mountain I bounded along,

I breasted the billows of Dee's rushing tide, And heard at a distance the Highlander's song:

At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose, No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my view, And warm to the skies my devotions arose, For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you.

They tell us, that slumber, the sister of I left my bleak home, and my visions are

death,

Mortality's emblem is given;

To fate how I long to resign my frail breath, If this be a foretaste of heaven!

Ah! frown not, sweet Lady, unbend your soft brow,

Nor deem me too happy in this; If I sin in my dream, I atone for it now, Thus doom'd but to gaze upon bliss. Though in visions, sweet Lady, perhaps, you may smile,

Oh! think not my penance deficient; When dreams of your presence my slumbers beguile,

To awake will be torture sufficient.

SONG.

WHEN I roved, a young Highlander, o'er the dark heath,

And climb'd thy steep summit, oh! Morven of Snow,

To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath, Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below,

Untutor❜d by science, a stranger to fear, And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew,

No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear, Need I say, my sweet Mary, 'twas centred in you?

gone, The mountains are vanish'd, my youth is

no more;

As the last of my race, I must wither alone, And delight but in days I have witness'd before.

Ah! splendour has raised, but embitter'd my lot,

More dear were the scenes which my infancy knew; Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet they are not forgot, Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with you.

When I see some dark hill point its crest to the sky,

I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbleen; When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye,

I think of those eyes that endear'd the rude

scene;

When, haply, some light waving locks I behold,

That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue,
I think on the long flowing ringlets of gold,
The locks that were sacred to beauty and

you.

Yet the day may arrive, when the mountains, once more,

Shall rise to my sight, in their mantles of

snow:

But while these soar above me, unchanged as before,

own;

You knew me unalter'd, by years or by distance,

Will Mary be there to receive me? ah, no!{ If danger demanded, were wholly your Adieu! then, ye hills, where my childhood was bred, Thou sweet flowing Dee, to thy waters adien! No home in the forest shall shelter my head; Ah! Mary, what home could be mine, but with you?

TO.

On! yes, I will own we were dear to each other,

The friendships of childhood, though fleeting, are true;

Devoted to love and to friendship alone.

You knew,—but away with the vain retrospection,

The bond of affection no longer endures; Too late you may droop o'er the fond recollection,

And sigh for the friend who was formerly yours.

For the present, we part, I will hope not for ever,

For time and regret will restore you at last; The love which you felt, was the love of To forget our dissension we both should

a brother,

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Here I behold its beauteous hue,
But where's the beam so sweetly straying?
Which gave a lustre to its blue,

Like Luna o'er the ocean playing.

Sweet copy! far more dear to me,

Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art,
Than all the living forms could be,
Save her who placed thee next my heart.

She placed it, sad, with needless fear,

Lest time might shake my wavering soul,
Unconscious, that her image, there,
Held every sense in fast controul.

Thro' hours, thro' years, thro' time, 'twill

cheer;
My hope, in gloomy moments, raise;
In life's last conflict 'twill appear,
And meet my fond expiring gaze.

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