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SONNET.

BROAD I roam with melancholy heart,

Nor longer can the gaudy funfhine please ; I feem amongst the gay to bear a part, But feel, alas! within, no real ease, Till night, and folitude, that kind relief Affords, which day denies to filent woe: The midnight lamp at once indulges grief And cares, by fuff'ring balmy tears to flow. By tears reliev'd, exhaufted Nature tir'd, Night'soffspring, Sleep, defcends with healing pow'r,

And Holy Vifions hover round my mind: Methinks, by Hope and pure Devotion fir'd, 1 feem above this mortal coil to foar, And all a dream my waking woes I find. S. D.

L I N E S

ON THE

DEATH OF COLONEL MOORHOUSE *. BY AN UNKNOWN WRITER.

TF held by Fate, if aweful from the cause,

The battle ceafes, and the trumpets paufe; If fank by grief the drooping Warrior stands, And grafps the falchion with reluctant hands; Blame not, O God of Arms! the mute delay; Nor lefs refulgent thine the rifing day,

Unless the tear which Glory deigns to shed, Dims the bright orb, and mourns her Favʼrite dead.

For thee, O MOOR HOUSE! Elegy fhall give Her richest ftrains, to bid thy mem❜ry live. Yet, ere thro' nobler thoughts thy merits fhine,

Let the meek prelude to thy fame be mine; Be mine the task, tho' my afpiring lays Breathe but the wish to justify thy praife. And, ob! too lately, and too dearly known, What can thy lofs, thy gen'ral lofs, atone!

To drain the fource of ineffectual tears, And damp with ceafelefs fighsfucceedingyears; T'exhau? the chale effufions of the lyre, And, hopetefs, emulate its facred fire; Thefe humble tributes fuit but ill thy claim, Nor to its own deferts exalt thy name; Yet fhall no charm our thoughts of theeretard, Deep in our minds bath mem ry fix'd regard ; Beyond the tuneful lyre, or Poet's art, Lives the pare record of the feeling heart; And fure, if aught below thy cares can move, 'Tis the enduring figh of faithful love! Religion, Truth, and Fertitude, combin'd To ftamp their image in thy perfect mind: When Friendship glow'd, 'twas luftre all its

own,

Uprais'd to Heav'n the bright example fhone.
Awake to Mis'ry's call, thy melting heart
In others forrows claim'd its equal part;

See pp. 862. 865, of our prefent month's Magazine.

I

And Poverty, by pitying Angels led,
Caught from thy lib'ral hand her daily bread.
Gentle, as manly, inerciful, as brave,-
Friendship and Glory confecra'e thy grave !
Heroes thall wonder where thy bones repofe,
Gaze on thy wreck, and moralize their woes.
In after-ages, 'midit the battle's heat,
The veteran foldier thall thy fail repeat;
Atty great name the vanquish'd foe fhall
fly,

Daunted by Moorhoufe, Fate, and Victory.
And thou-meck partner of bistend'rer care,
While damp that cheek with Grief's too fre
quent tear,

May Friendship hope to mitigate the figh,
Arreft the falling tribute from the eye,
Asd guide, in Refignation's path, thy way
Thro' life's dark hour to Heav'n's eternal day!

O Life! contrafted in thy little sphere, Weak are thy bleifings-flecting thy career; In thoughtless joy the morn of Beauty blooms, Nor dreads the blast that flatters and confumes. The Scepter'd Being, that, from his fplendid throne,

Feels confcious pow'r in Mis'ry's dying groan, When on the rack the mangled convict bleeds, And meagre Death on vital anguifh feeds; What are his thoughts?-The prefent hour of love,

Th' ambrofial cup, and amaranthine grove, The warbling lute, the Eifs-infpiring lyre, When virgin Beauty ftrikes the quiv ring wire! Such are his thoughts, whilft yet departing breath

Hangs on the culprit's lips, and pleads for death. To-morrow blas the pleafures of to-day, And with the victim's joins the tyrant's clay! Then what avails the comfortless parade? The high-plum'd hearfe, with fable pomp array'd?

Tho' endless trophies grace the fculptur'd urn, No Friend fhall weep-no virtuous Relict mourn!

Expos'd to chilling winds and beating rains, Scarcely the parent Rofe the shock furtains, When bending o er her leaves with bluthing

pride,

She Shields the bud that clusters by her fide;
Till tome rude gale its filken bloffoms tear,
And the last parting fragrance blends with air.
So have I feen, aff:ctionately mild,
The anxious mother watch her dailing child,
Whilft Lingering illness nips its rofeate bloom,
And prematurely marks it for the tomb!
Loft to regret-herfelf-the finks to death,
And in the arms of Peace religns her breath.
Oh, gone for ever! and for ever mourn'd!
Loft to the world the virtues it adora'd!
If fometimes wandering o'erthy fainted grave,
The midnight dews my trembling footfleps
[thade)

lave,

Deign (whilft thy fpirit courts the glinam'ring T'accept the mournful tribute justly paid.So fhall foft Peace her wonted charms rettore, And live with Life-till Men'ry bloom no inore !

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Thefe tatter'd cloaths my poverty befpeak; Thefe hoary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years; [cheek And many a furrow in my grief-worn Has been the channel to a flood of tears!

Yon houfe, erected on the rifing ground, With tempting afpect drew me from my road; For Plenty there a refidence has found, And Grandeur a magnificent abode.

Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor! Here, as I crav'd a morfel of their bread,

A pamper'd mental drove me from the door, To feek a fhelter in a humbler fshed.

Oh, take me to your hofpitable dome! Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold! Short is my patfage to the friendly tomb; For I am poor, and miferably old!

Should I reveal the fources of my grief, If foft Humanity e'er touch d your breaft, Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,

repine

And tears of Pity would not be repreft. Hear'n fends misfortunes! why thould we [fee!'Tis Heav'n has brought me to the ftate you And your condition foon may be like mine, The child of Sorrow, and of Mifery!

A little farm was my paternal lot; Then, like the lark, I fprightly hail'd the morn!

[cot; But, al! Oppreflion forc'd me from my My cattle died, and blighted was my corn.

My daughter, once the comfort of my age, Lur'd by a villain from her native home, Is caft, abandon'd, on the world's wide stage,

And doom'd in fcanty poverty to roam.

My tender wife, fweet foother of my cares, Struck with fad anguish at the stern decree, Fell, ling'ring fell, a victim to Defpair, And left the world to wretchedness and me!

Pity the forrows of a poor old man, Whofe trembling limbs have borne him to your door; [ípan: Whofe days are dwindled to the shortest Oh, give relief, and Heav'n will blefs your ftore!

THE POOR MAN'S PRAYER. WRITTEN IN MDCCLXVI. ADDRESSED TO THE EARL OF CHATHAM. By DR. ROBERTS.

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MIDST the more important toils of
State,

The counfels lab'ring in thy patriot foul;
Tho' Europe from thy voice expect her fate,
And thy keen glance extend from pole to
pole:

To thefe fad ftrains incline a fav'ring ear;
O Chatham! nurs'd in antient Virtue's lore,

Think on the God whom thou and I adore, Nor turn, unpitying, from the Poor Man's Prayer!

Ah me! how bleft was once a peasant's life!

No lawless paffion fwell'd may even breast! Far from the ftormy waves of civil ftrife, Sound were my fiambers, and my heart at rest.

I ne'er for guilty, painful pleafures rov'd, But, taught by Nature and by choice to wed, From all the hamlet cull'd whom best I

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See p. 810.

Buty

But, ah, how chang'd the scene! on the cold ftones,

Where wont at night to blaze the chearful fire, Pale Famine fits, and counts her naked bones, Still fighs for food, still pines with vain defire. My faithful wife, with ever-ftreaming eyes, Hangs on my bosom her dejected head;

My helpless infants raise their feeble cries, And from their father claim their daily bread.

Dear, tender pledges of my honeft love, On that bare bed behold your brother lie! Three tedious days with pinching want he strove,

The fourth I faw the helpless Cherub die !

Not long shall ye remain! -With visage four,

Our tyrant lord commands us from our home; And, arm'd with cruel law's coercive pow'r, [roam. Bids me and mine o'er barren mountains

Yet never, Chatham! have I pafs'd à day In riot's orgies, or in idle eafe;

Ne'er have I facrific'd to sport and play, Or wish'd a pamper'd appetite to please.

Hard was my fate, and conftant was my toil!

Still with the morning's orient light I rofe,

Fell'd the ftout oak, or rais'd the lofty p:le, Parch'd in the fun, in dark December froze. Is it that Nature, with a niggard hand, Withholds her gifts from thefe once-favour'd plains?

Has God, in vengeance to a guilty land, Sent dearth and farnine to her lab'ring (wains? Ah no!-Yon hill, where daily fweats my brow,

A thousand flocks, a thousand herds adorn; Yon field, where late I drove the painful plough,

Feels all her acres crown'd with wavy corn.

But what avails, that, o'er the furrow'd foil, In autumn's heat the yellow harvests rife, If artificial want elude my toil, Untafied plenty wound my craving eyes!

What profits that at diftance I behold My wealthy neighbour's fragrant imoke afcend;

If ftill the griping cormorants withhold The fruits which rain and genial seasons fend!

If thofe fell vipers of the public weal
Yet unrelenting on our bowels prey;
If ftill the curfe of penury we feel,
And in the midft of plenty pine away!

In every port the vessel rides fecure,
That wafts our harveft to a foreign fhore;
While we the pangs of preling want en-
dure,

The fons of ftrangers riot on our store!

O gen'rous Chatham! stop those fatal fails! Once more with out-ftretch'd arm thy Britons fave!

Th' unheeding crew but wait for fav'ring gales;

O stop them, ere they stem Italia's wave !. Tis thou alone canft fave my children's From thee alone I hope for inftant aid;

breath;

O, deem not little of our cruel meed! O, hafte to help us! for delay is death!

So may nor fpleen nor envy blast thy name, Nor voice prophane thy patriot acts der de; Still may'ft thou stand the first in honeft fame,

Unftung by folly, vanity, or pride

So may thy languid limbs with strength be brac'd,

And glowing health fupport thy active foul; With fair renown thy public virtue grac'd, Far as thou bad' Britannia's thunders roll. Then joy to thee, and to my children peace, The grateful hind fhall drink from Plenty's horn; create, And, while they fhare the cultur'd land's inThe poor fhall blefs the day when Pitt was born.

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Front to front we firmly ftood; And with eager force affailing,

Greedy drew each other's blood.
Brave, brave the death, and great the wound,
Which Fame approv'd, and Honour crown'd.

Be nerv'd the arm, be drawn the fword,
War, war, when glory is the word!
As lightning fwift the hero flies,
As lightnings, flath his ardent eyes:
His flaming faulchion, lo, he draws!
And gladly, in his country's cause,
Or crown'd with conquest mounts to Fame,
Or crown'd with honour dies.

ELEGY,

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UR willow wreaths we now neglected leave,

And into chaplets baleful cyprefs weave. Let happier hands hind rofes in their bloom On fmiling brows; we deck the ghaftful tomb. [frew; Thefe late-fprung flow'rets, Mufes, ye may The boon is trivial, but the labour due.

The fell difeafe, that long had rag`d in vain,
Began to waken ev'ry vital pain;
With new attacks provok'd th`unequal firife,
And, with no idle danger, threaten'd life :
Withholden fpoils th indign.nt foe requir'd,
And Heav'n re-fummon'd what itself inspir'd.
'Twas in thefe moments, while the filent
night

In b Imy flumber fead my aching fight,
Methought I faw once more, with humid eye,
Alonzo pale with mortal fickness lie;
The self-fame as I laft in life had feen;
How full the features, and exprefs the mien !
Their ardent withes to afluage the pain,
His friends around him well exprefs'd in vain.
But foremost fhe, who now laments alone,
And makes in mournful fhades her heavier
moan;

When all her kind connubial cares had fail'd, And black Affliction's whelming storm prevail'd:

Yet all the while they filently contend
In rival forrows for their common friend,
Nor with, nor doubt, his tongue e'er once re-
veals;

No tale of aught he fears, of all he feels. More faintly now he drew each doubtful breath;

But faw with fteady eye approaching death: Refign'd, whenever the Supreme Command Should speed the shaft that aim'd his liftcel hand.

O may I thus, each idle project o'er, When life's falfe colours can allure no more, Have done each part, but most in this excel, And calmly bid th'applauding world farewel!

The fcene, I thought, was mov'd, and
Fancy drew

Remoter objects, in a fainter view:

A 'fcutcheon'd hearte, with plumes; a fable train;

And, leif'ning to the fight, a hallow'd fane. Its mould'ring head the filver moon's pale beans,

Revealing, ting'd with interrupted gleams; While, more diftinét, with emulative light Bught thunbeam blaz`d--alas, how fringely bolt!

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And penúve murmurs died along the
I faw, decreas'd, the pageant move along,
In flow proceffion, thro' a mournful throng;
And still the twinkling flambeaux feem'd to
fhow,

With fainter glare, the difmal fcene of woe:
Till, where the fane its banging turret rear'd,
Th' attendants halted; and all difappear'd.

How drear, I cried, the paffage to the tomb! That realm where pain and pleasure never come ! [fants dwell; Where Kings, untrophied, muit with peaAnd bid, for humbler ftate, their crowns farewel!

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cause.

[fweets
Thrice happy elfe, they tafte thofe purer
No time can injure, in these blissful feats.
Lament not him you faw with Fate contend,
And then in filence to the grave defcend.
For him his ev'ning fun, with chearful ray,
In going down foretold a brighter day:
For him it rofe in glory! though to you
Array'd in colours of the deepest hue.
'Tis here, where Saints, transform'd, with
Angels dwell,

And, as in holiness, in blifs excel,
That all his virtues find their due regard,
And, what not men could give him, their re-

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BY MISS LOCKE. TRANGER to happiness, by care depreft, Where can I hope fubftantial peace to find I

STRAN

How foothe the penfive forrows of my breaft,
Or calm the tortures of a wounded mind!
Among the gay, or with th' unfeeling great,
Can real happiness he found to dwell?
Ah no! the flies the gaudy domes of ftate,
To feek the peafant's cot, or hermit's cell.
At midnight masquerade, or public fhew,
Let thoughtless Beauty all her hours em-
ploy:

Yet there, while idly gay her fpirits flow, Reafon fhall afk, "Can this be genuine joy!"

She fcorns fuch frivolous delights to prize,

And, pleas'd to fhun the diffipated crew, To peace, to privacy, to filence flies,

And bids the world, and all its cares, adieu. Then welcome, Solitude, thy calm retreat, Lov'd by the Hermit, Poet, and the Sage; Where Virtue, Genius, Science, fix their feat,

Pride, ornament, and glory, of their age! In the dark wood, and near the acid ftream, Do thou, Melpomene, my steps attend: Accept, exalt, and animate my theme; Be thou may Guide, my Patronefs, and Friend!

By thee the Soul of Poetry infpir'd,

Shall with celeftial ardour learn to glow; Feel all its pow'rs with admiration fir‍d, And, rapt in thought, leave groiler worlds below.

We'll court the aweful filence of the night, When the moon, floating on the filver wave, Calls up to keen Imagination's fight,

The fhades of thousands from their wat❜ry

grave.

Or let us tread fome ruin'd abbey's ground, Where at the midnight hour, in speechlefs

fear,

Stands the lone pilgrim, from the tombs around
While groans of martyrs vibrate on his ear.
Or if no folemn, no myfterious fcene,
Infpire fublime enthufiaftic dreams;
With hand lefs daring, and with mind ferene,
I'll tune my ruftic pipe to humbler themes.
Then be thou, Solitude, the gift of Fate,

When youth is flown, and life draws near its clofe;

When Piety fhall view a happier state,

And lull each human forrow to repofe.

Then too, O Fortitude, thy pow'r display ! Poffefs, fupport, invigorate my breast! And, while to Heav'n Religion points the way, Seraphs fhall waft my parting foul to rest.

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