HOURS OF IDLENESS.

On the Death of a Young Lady, Cousin to the Author and very dear to him.*

HUSH'D are the winds, and still the evening gloom,
Not e'en a zephyr wanders through the grove,
Whilst I return, to view my Margaret's tomb,
And scatter flowers on the dust I love.

Within this narrow cell reclines her clay,

That clay, where once such animation beam'd;
The King of Terrors seized her as his prey,
Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeem'd.

Oh! could that King of Terrors pity feel,

Or Heaven reverse the dread decrees of fate!
Not here the mourner would his grief reveal,
Not here the muse her virtues would relate.

But wherefore weep? Her matchless spirit soars
Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day;
And weeping angels lead her to those bowers
Where endless pleasures virtue's deeds repay.

The author claims the indulgence of the reader more for this piece than, perhaps, any other in the collection; but as it was written at an earlier period than the rest (being composed at the age of fourteen,) and his first essay, he preferred submitting it to the ndulgence of his friends in its present state, to making either addition or alteration.

And shall presumptuous mortals Heaven arraign,
And, madly, godlike Providence accuse?
Ah! no, far fly from me attempts so vain ;-
I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse.

Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear,
Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face;
Still they call forth my warm affection's tear,
Still in my heart retain their wonted place.

To E--.

Let Foliv smile, to view the names
Of thee and me in friendship twined;
Yet Virtue will have greater claims
To love, than rank with vice combined.

And though unequal is thy fate.
Since title deck'd my nigher birth.
Yet envy not this gaudy state;
Thine is the pride of modest worth.

Our souls at least congenial meet,
Nor can thy lot my rank disgrace;
Our intercourse is not less sweet,
Since worth of rank supplies the place.

To D-

In thee, I fondly hop'd to clasp

A friend, whom death alone could sever; Till envy, with malignant grasp,

Detach'd thee from my breast for ever.

True, she has forc'd thee from my breast,
Yet, in my heart thou keep'st thy seat;
There, there thine image still must rest,
Until that heart shall cease to beat.

And, when the grave restores her dead,
When life again to dust is given,
On thy dear breast I'll lay my head-
Without thee, where would be my heaven?

Epitaph on a Friend.

Oh, Friend! for ever loved, for ever dear!
What fruitless tears have bathed thy honour'd bier
What sighs re-echo'd to thy parting breath,
Whilst thou wast struggling in the pangs of death!
Could tears retard the tyrant in his course;
Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force;
Could youth and virtue claim a short delay,
Or beauty charm the spectre from his pray;
Thou still hadst lived to bless my aching sight,
Thy comrade's honour and thy friend's delight.
If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh

The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie,
Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart,
A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art.
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,
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.

A Fragment.

When, to their airy hall, my fathers' voice
Shall call my spirit, joyful to their choice;

When, pois'd upon the gale, my form shall ride,
Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side;
Oh! may my shade behold no sculptur'd urns
To mark the spot where earth to earth returns!
No lengthen'd scroll, no praise-encumber'd stone;
My epitaph shall be my name alone :

If that with honour fail to crown my clay,
Oh! may no other fame my deeds repay
That, only that, shall single out the spot;
By that remember'd, or with that forgot.

On leaving Newstead Abbey.

Thou

Why dost thou build the hall, son of the winged days? lookest from thy tower to-day; yet a few years, and the blast of the desert comes, it howls in thy empty court.-Ossian.

Through thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds whistle;

Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay; In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle Have chok'd up the rose which late bloom'd in

the way.

Of the mail-cover'd Barons, who proudly to battle Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain, The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast rattle,

Are only sad vestiges now that remain.

No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers,

Raise a flame in the breast for the war-laurell'd

wreath;

Near Askalon's towers, John of Horistan* slumbers, Unnerv'd is the hand of his minstrel by death.

"In the park of Horseley," says Thoroton, "there was a castle, some of the ruins of which are yet visible, called Horistan Castle, which was the chief mansion of Ralph de Burun's successors "

Paul and Hubert, too, sleep in the valley of Cressy: For the safety of Edward and England they fell: My fathers! the tears of your country redress ye; 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 loyalty seal'd.

Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant depart

ing

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. The fame, and that memory, still will he cherish; He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown: Like you will he live, or like you will he perish When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your own!

Lines written in " Letters of an Italian Nun and an English Gentleman: by J. J. Rousseau: founded on facts.

.

"Away, away, your flattering arts

May now betray some simpler hearts;
And you will smile at their believing,
And they shall weep at your deceiving."

The battle of Marston Moor, where the adherents of Charles I. were defeated.

Son of the Elector Palatine, and nephew to Charles J. He afterwards commanded the fleet in the reign of Charles II.