Rest, injured shade! Shall SLANDER squatting near
Spit her cold venom in a DEAD MAN's ear?
'Twas thine to feel the sympathetic glow

In Merit's joy, and Poverty's meek woe;
Thine all, that cheer the moment as it flies,
The zoneless CARES, and smiling COURTESIES.
Nursed in thy heart the firmer Virtues grew,
And in thy heart they withered! Such chill dew
Wan INDOLENCE on each young blossom shed;
And VANITY her filmy net-work spread,
With eye that rolled around in asking gaze,
And tongue that trafficked in the trade of praise.
Thy follies such! the hard world marked them well—
Were they more wise, the PROUD who never fell?
Rest, injured shade! the poor man's grateful prayer
On heaven-ward wing thy wounded soul shall bear.
As oft at twilight gloom thy grave I pass,

And sit me down upon its recent grass,
With introverted eye I contemplate

Similitude of soul, perhaps of-Fate!

To me hath Heaven with bounteous hard assigned
Energic Reason and a shaping mind,

The daring ken of Truth, the Patriot's part,
And Pity's sigh, that breathes the gentle heart.
Sloth-jaundiced all! and from my graspless hand
Drop Friendship's precious pearls, like hour glass sand.

VOL. I.

E

I weep, yet stoop not! the faint anguish flows,
A dreamy pang in Morning's feverish doze.

Is this piled earth our Being's passless mound?
Tell me, cold grave! is Death with poppies crowned?
Tired Centinel! mid fitful starts I nod,

And fain would sleep, though pillowed on a clod!

TO A YOUNG LADY, WITH A POEM ON THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.

MUCH on my early youth I love to dwell,
Ere yet I bade that friendly dome farewell,
Where first, beneath the echoing cloisters pale,
I heard of guilt and wondered at the tale!
Yet though the hours flew by on careless wing,
Full heavily of Sorrow would I sing.
Aye as the star of evening flung its beam
In broken radiance on the wavy stream,
My soul amid the pensive twilight gloom

Mourned with the breeze, O LEE Boo!* o'er thy tomb.
Where'er I wandered, PITY still was near,

Breathed from the heart and glistened in the tear:

* LEE Boo, the son of ABBA THULE, Prince of the Pelew Islands, came over to England with Captain Wilson, died of the small-pox, and is buried in Greenwich church-yard. See Keate's Account.

No knell that tolled, but filled my anxious eye,
And suffering Nature wept that one should die!*

Thus to sad sympathies I soothed my breast,
Calm, as the rainbow in the weeping West:
When slumbering FREEDOM roused by high DISDAIN
With giant fury burst her triple chain!

Fierce on her front the blasting Dog-star glowed;
Her Banners, like a midnight Meteor, flowed;
Amid the yelling of the storm-rent skies

She came, and scattered battles from her eyes!
Then EXULTATION waked the patriot fire
And swept with wilder hand the Alcœan lyre:
Red from the Tyrant's wound I shook the lance,
And strode in joy the reeking plains of France!

Fallen is the oppressor, friendless, ghastly, low,
And my heart aches, though MERCY struck the blow.
With wearied thought once more I seek the shade,
Where peaceful Virtue weaves the MYRTLE braid.
And O! if EYES whose holy glances roll,
Swift messengers, and eloquent of soul;

If SMILES more winning, and a gentler MIEN
Than the love-wildered Maniac's brain hath seen

*Southey's Retrospect.

Shaping celestial forms in vacant air,

If these demand the empassioned Poet's care-
If MIRTH, and softened SENSE, and WIT refined,
The blameless features of a lovely mind;

Then haply shall my trembling hand assign
No fading wreath to BEAUTY's saintly shrine.
Nor, SARA! thou these early flowers refuse-
Ne'er lurked the snake beneath their simple hues ;
No purple bloom the Child of Nature brings
From Flattery's night-shade: as he feels he sings.

September, 1792.