ELEGY TO THE MEMORY
When the full sails could not provoke the flood,
Till Nicou came and swell'd the seas with blood.
Slow at the end of his robust array,
The mighty warrior pensive took his way:
Against the son of Nair, the young Rorest,
Once the companion of his youthful breast.
Strong were the passions of the son of Nair,
Strong as the tempest of the evening air.
Insatiate in desire; fierce as the boar;
Firm in resolve as Cannie's rocky shore.
Long had the gods endeavour'd to destroy
All Nicou's friendship, happiness, and joy:
They sought in vain, till Vicat, Vichon's son,
Never in feats of wickedness outdone,
Saw Nica, sister to the mountain king,
Drest beautiful, with all the flow'rs of spring:
He saw, and scatter'd poison in her eyes;
From limb to limb in varied forms he flies;
Dwelt on her crimson lip, and added grace
To every glossy feature of her face.

Rorest was fir'd with passion at the sight;
Friendship and honour sunk to Vicat's right:
He saw, he lov'd, and burning with desire,
Bore the soft maid from brother, sister, sire.
Pining with sorrow, Nica faded, died,
Like a fair aloe in its morning pride.
This brought the warrior to the bloody mead,
And sent to young Rorest the threat'ning reed.
He drew his army forth: oh! need I tell!
That Nicou conquer'd, and the lover fell:
His breathless army mantled all the plain;
And Death sat smiling on the heaps of slain.
The battle ended, with his reeking dart,
The pensive Nicou pierc'd his beating heart:
And to his mourning valiant warriors cry'd,
"I and my sister's ghost are satisfy'd,"
Brooke-street, June 12.

ELEGY,

OF MR. THOMAS PHILIPS,

453

So seem'd the woodlands less'ning from afar;
You saw the real prospect as you read.
Majestic Summer's blooming flow'ry pride
Next claim'd the honour of his nervous song;
He taught the streams in hollow trills to glide,
And lead the glories of the year along.

When golden Autumn, wreath'd in ripen'd corn,
From purple clusters press'd the foamy wine,
Thy genius did his sallow brows adorn,
And made the beauties of the season thine.

Pale rugged Winter bending o'er his tread,
His grizzled hair bedropt with icy dew;
His eyes, a dusky light, congeal'd and dead;
His robe, a tinge of bright etherial blue;
His train, a motley'd, sanguine, sable cloud,
He limps along the russet dreary moor;
Whilst rising whirlwinds, blasting, keen, and loud,
Roll the white surges to the sounding shore.
Nor were his pleasures unimprov'd by thee:
Pleasures he has, tho' horribly deform'd:
The silver'd hill, the polish'd lake, we see,
Is by thy genius fix'd, preserv'd, and warm'd
The rough November has his pleasures too
But I'm insensible to every joy:

Farewell the laurel, now I grasp the yew,
And all my little powers in grief employ.

In thee each virtue found a pleasing cell,
Thy mind was honour, and thy soul divine:
With thee did ev'ry pow'r of genius dwell:
Thou wert the Helicon of all the Nine.

Fancy, whose various figure-tinctur'd vest,
Was ever changing to a different hue:
Her head, with varied bays and flow'rets drest,
Her eyes, two spangles of the morning dew.

In dancing attitude she swept thy string,
And now she soars, and now again descends

TO THE MEMORY OF MR. THOMAS PHILIPS, OF And now reclining on the zephyr's wing,

FAIRFORD.

No more I hail the morning's golden gleam;
No more the wonders of the view I sing:
Friendship requires a melancholy theme;
At her command the awful lyre I string.

Now as I wander thro' this leafless grove,
Where the dark vapours of the evening rise,
How shall I teach the chorded shell to move;
Or stay the gushing torrents from my eyes?

Philips, great master of the boundless lyre,
Thee would the grateful Muse attempt to paint;
Give me a double portion of thy fire,
Or all the pow'rs of language are too faint.
Say what bold number, what immortal line
The image of thy genius can reflect;
O, lend my pen what animated thine,
To show thee in thy native glories deckt.

The joyous charms of Spring delighted saw,
Their beauties doubly glaring in thy lay:
Nothing was Spring which Philips did not draw,
And ev'ry image of his Muse was May.

So rose the regal hyacinthal star;
So shone the pleasant rustic daisied bed;

Unto the velvet-vested mead she bends.

Peace, deck'd in all the softness of the dove
Over thy passions spread a silver plume.
The rosy vale of harmony and love,
Hung on thy soul in one eternal bloom.
Peace, gentlest, softest of the virtues, spread
Her silver pinions, wet with dewy tears,
Upon her best distinguish'd poet's head,
And taught his lyre the music of the spheres.
Temp'rance, with health and beauty in her train
And massy-muscled strength in all her pride,
Pointed at scarlet luxury and pain,
And did at every cheerful feast preside.
Content, who smiles at all the frowns of fate,
Fann'd from idea ev'ry seeming ill;
In thy own virtue, and thy genius great,
The happy Muse laid anxious troubles still.
But see! the sick'ned glare of day retires,
And the meek ev'ning shades the dusky grey:
The west faint glimmers with the saffron fires,
And, like thy life, O Philips, dies away.

Here, stretch'd upon this heaven-ascending hill,
I'll wait the horrours of the coming night;

I'll imitate the gently-plaintive rill,
And by the glare of lambent vapours write.

Wet with the dew, the yellow'd hawthorns bow;
The loud winds whistle thro' the echoing dell;
Far o'er the lea the breathing cattle low,
And the shrill shriekings of the screech-owl swell.
With rustling sound the dusky foliage flies,
And wantons with the wind in rapid whirls.
The gurgling riv'let to the valley hies,
And lost to sight in dying murmurs curls.

Now as the mantle of the ev'ning swells
Upon my mind, I feel a thick'ning gloom!
Ah! could I charm, by friendship's potent spells,
The soul of Philips from the deathy tomb!

Then would we wander thro' the dark'ned vale,
In converse such as heav'nly spirits use,
And born upon the plumage of the gale,
Hymn the Creator, and exhort the Muse.

But horrour to reflection! Now no more
Will Philips sing, the wonder of the plain,
When doubting whether they might not adore,
Admiring mortals heard the nervous strain.

A madd'ning darkness reigns thro' all the lawn,
Nought but a doleful bell of death is heard,
Save where into an hoary oak withdrawn,
The scream proclaims the curst nocturnal bird.
Now rest, my Muse, but only rest to weep
A friend made dear by ev'ry sacred tye!
Unknown to me be comfort, peace, or sleep,
Philips is dead! 'tis pleasure then to die!

FEBRUARY.

AN ELEGY.

BEGIN, my Muse, the imitative lay,
Aonian doxies sound the thrumming string;
Attempt no number of the plaintive Gay,
Let me like midnight cats, or Collins sing.
If in the trammels of the doleful line
The bounding hail, or drilling rain descend;
Come, brooding Melancholy, pow'r divine,
And ev'ry unform'd mass of words amend.

Now the rough goat withdraws his curling horns,
And the cold wat'rer twirls his circling mop:
Swift sudden anguish darts thro' alt'ring corns,
And the spruce mercer trembles in his shop.

Now infant authors, madd'ning for renown,
Extend the plume, and hum about the stage,
Procure a benefit, amuse the town,
And proudly glitter in a title page.

Now, wrapt in ninefold fur, his squeamish grace
Defies the fury of the howling storm;
And whilst the tempest whistles round his face,
Exults to find his mantled carcass warm.

Now rumbling coaches furious drive along,
Full of the majesty of city dames,
Whose jewels sparkling in the gaudy throng,
Raise strange emotions and invidious flames.

Now Merit, happy in the calm of place,
To mortals as a Highlander appears,
And conscious of the excellence of lace,
With spreading frogs and gleaming spangles glares:
Whilst Envy, on a tripod seated nigh,
In form a shoe-boy, daubs the valu'd fruit,
And darting lightnings from his vengeful eye,
Raves about Wilkes, and politics, and Bute.

Now Barry, taller than a grenadier,
Dwindles into a stripling of eighteen:
Or sabled in Othello breaks the ear,
Exerts his voice, and totters to the scene.

Now Foote, a looking-glass for all mankind,
Applies his wax to personal defects;
But leaves untouch'd the image of the mind,
His art no mental quality reflects.

Now Drury's potent king extorts applause,
And pit, box, gallery, echo, "How divine!"
Whilst vers'd in all the drama's mystic laws,
His graceful action saves the wooden line.
Now-But what further can the Muses sing?
Now dropping particles of water fall;
Now vapours riding on the north wind's wing,
With transitory darkness shadow all.
Alas! how joyless the descriptive theme,
When sorrow on the writer's quiet preys; -
And like a mouse in Cheshire cheese supreme,
Devours the substance of the less'ning bayes.

Come, February, lend thy darkest sky,
There teach the winter'd Muse with clouds to soar;
Come, February, lift the number high;
Let the sharp strain like wind thro' alleys roar.

Ye channels, wand'ring thro' the spacious street,
In hollow murmurs roll the dirt along,
With inundations wet the sabled feet,
Whilst gouts responsive, join th' elegiac song.

Ye damsels fair, whose silver voices shrill
Sound thro' meand'ring folds of Echo's horn;
Let the sweet cry of liberty be still,
No more let smoking cakes awake the morn.
O, Winter! put away thy snowy pride;
O, Spring! neglect the cowslip and the bell;
O, Summer! throw thy pears and plums aside;
O, Autumn! bid the grape with poison swell.
The pension'd Muse of Johnson is no more!
Drown'd in a butt of wine his genius lies: [plore,
Earth! Ocean! Heav'n! the wond'rous loss de-
The dregs of Nature with her glory dies!
What iron stoic can suppress the tear;
What sour reviewer read with vacant eye;
What bard but decks his literary bier!
Alas! I cannot sing-I howl-I cry-!
Bristol, Feb. 12.

ELEGY.

ON W. BECKFORD, ESQ.

D.

WEEP on, ye Britons-give your gen'ral tear;
But hence, ye venal-hence each titled slave;
An honest pang should wait on Beckford's bier,
And patriot anguish mark the patriot's grave,

When life's poor lamp more faint and fainter grew; Forbid the beauties of the spring to rise;

HASTE, haste, ye solemn messengers of night,
Spread the black mantle on the shrinking plain;
But, ah! my torments still survive the light,
The changing seasons alter not my pain.

Ye variegated children of the spring;
Ye blossoms blushing with the pearly dew;
Ye birds that sweetly in the hawthorn sing;
Ye flow'ry meadows, lawns of verdant hue,
Faint are your colours; harsh your love-notes thrill,
To me no pleasure nature now can yield:
Alike the barren rock and woody hill,
The dark-brown blasted heath, and fruitful field.

Maria can be true:

No more for fools or empty beaux,
Heav'n's representatives disclose,
Or butterflies pursue.

Fly to your worthiest lover's arms,
To him resign your sweling charms,
And meet his gen'rous breast:

Or if Pitholeon suits your taste,
His Muse with tatter'd fragments grac'd,
Shall read your cares to rest.

D.

THE COPERNICAN SYSTEM. ›
THE Sun revolving on his axis turns,
And with creative fire intensely buras;
Impell'd the forcive air, our Earth supreme,
Rolls with the planets round the solar gleam;
First Mercury completes his transient year,
Glowing, refurgent, with reflected glare;
Bright Venus occupies a wider way,
The early harbinger of night and day;
More distant sti.i our globe terraqueous turns,
Nor chills intense, nor fiercely heated burns;
Around her 1ols the lunar orb of light,
Trailing her silver glories through the night:
On the Earth's orbit see the various signs,
Mark where the Sun, our year completing, shines;
First the bright Ram his languid ray improves;
Next glaring wat'ry thro' the Buli he moves;
The am'rous Twins admit his genial ray;
Now burning, thro' the Crab he takes his way;
The Lion, flaming, bears the solar power;
The Virgin faints beneath the sultry shower.

Now the just Balance weighs his equal force,
The slimy Serpent swelters in his course;
The sabled Archer clouds his languid face;
The Goat, with tempests, urges on his race;
Now in the water his faint beams appear,
And the cold Fishes end the circling year.
Beyond our globe the sanguine Mars displays
A strong reflection of primeval rays;
Next belted Jupiter far distant gleams,
Scarcely enlight'ned with the solar beams;
With four unfix'd receptacles of light,
He tours majestic thro' the spacious height:
But farther yet the tardy Saturn lags,
And five attendant luminaries drags;
Investing with a double ring his pace,
He circles thro' immensity of space.

A group of heroes occupied the round,
Loug in the rolls of intamy renown d.
C.rcling t table all in silence sat,
Now tearing bloody lean, now champing fat;
Now pickin ortolans, and chicken sla a,
To form the whimsies of an à-la-reine:
Now storming castles of the newest taste,
And granting articles to forts of paste;

Now swallowing bitter draughts of Prussian beer;
Now sucking tallow of salubrious deer.
The god of cabinets and senates saw
His sons, like asses, to one centre draw.
Inflated Discord heard, and left her cell,
With all the horrours of her native Heil:
She, on the soaring wings of genius fled,
And wav'd the pen of Junius round her head.
Beneath the table, veil'd from sight, she sprang,
And sat astride on noisy Twitcher's tongue:
Twitcher, superior to the venal pack

Of Bloomsbury's notorious monarch, Jack:
Twitcher, a rotten branch of mighty stock,
Whose interest winds his conscience as his clock:
Whose attributes detestable have long
Been evident, and infamous in song.

A toast's demanded; Madoc swift arose,
Pactolian gravy trickling down his clothes:
His sanguine fork a murder'd pigeon prest,
His knife with deep incision sought the breast.
Upon his lips the quivering accents hung,
And too much expedition chain'd his tongue.
When thus he sputter'd: "All the glasses fill,
And toast the great Pendragon of the hill:
Mab-Uther Owein, a long train of kings,
From whom the royal blood of Madoc springs.
Madoc, undoubtedly of Arthur's race,
You see the mighty monarch in his face:
Madoc, in bagnios and in courts ador'd,
Demands this proper homage of the board." [beer:
"Monarchs!" said Twitcher, setting down his
His muscles wreathing a contemptuous sneer:
"Monarchs of mole-hills, oyster-beds, a rock!
These are the grafters of your royal stock:
My pony Scrub can sires more valiant trace-"
The mangled pigeon thunders on his face;
His op'ning mouth the melted butter fills,
And dropping from his nose and chin distils.
Furious he started, rage his bosom warms;
Loud as his lordship's morning dun he storms.
"Thou vulgar imitator of the great,
Grown wanton with the excrements of state:
This to thy head notorious Twitcher sends."
His shadow body to the table bends:
His straining arms uprears a loin of veal,

These are thy wond'rous works, first Source of In these degenerate days, for three a meal:

good!

Now more admir'd in being understood.

Bristol, Dec. 23.

[plies

D.B.

In antient times, as various writers say,
An alderman or priest eat three a day.
With godlike strength, the grinning Twitcher
His stretching muscles, and the mountain flies.
Swift, as a cloud that shadows o'er the plain,
It flew and scatter'd drops of oily rain.

THE CONSULIAD.

AN HEROIC POEM.

Of warring senators, and battles dire,
Of quails uneaten, Muse, awake the lyre,
Where C-pb-Il's chimneys overlook the square,
And N-t-n's future prospects hang in air!
Where counsellors dispute, and cockers match,
And Caledonian carls in concert scratch;

In opposition to extended knives,

On royal Madoc's spreading chest it drives:
Senseless he falls upon the sandy ground,
Prest with the steamy load that ooz'd around.
And now confusion spread her ghastly plume,
And faction separates the noisy room.
Balluntun, exercis'd in every vice
That opens to a courtier's paradise,
With D-s-n trammell'd, scruples not to draw
Injustice up the rocky hill of law: