WOMAN SPEAKER.

Yet, ah! what terrors frowned upon her fateDeath, with its formidable band,

Fever, and pain, and pale consumptive care, Determined took their stand.

Nor did the cruel ravagers design

To finish all their efforts at a blow;

But, mischievously slow,

They robbed the relic, and defaced the shrine.

With unavailing grief,
Despairing of relief,

Her weeping children round

Beheld each hour

Death's growing power,

And trembled as he frowned.

As helpless friends who view from shore
The labouring ship, and hear the tempest roar,
While winds and waves their wishes cross,-
They stood, while hope and comfort fail,
Not to assist, but to bewail

The inevitable loss.

Relentless tyrant, at thy call

How do the good, the virtuous fall!

Truth, beauty, worth, and all that most engage, But wake thy vengeance and provoke thy rage.

SONG. BY A MAN.

When vice my dart and scythe supply,
How great a king of terrors I!
If folly, fraud, your hearts engage,
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!

Fall, round me fall, ye little things,
Ye statesmen, warriors, poets, kings!
If virtue fail her counsel sage,
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!

MAN SPEAKER.

Yet let that wisdom, urged by her example,
Teach us to estimate what all must suffer;
Let us prize death as the best gift of nature,
As a safe inn, where weary travellers,

When they have journeyed through a world of cares,
May put off life and be at rest for ever.

Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy sables,

May oft distract us with their sad solemnity:

The preparation is the executioner.

Death, when unmasked, shows me a friendly face,

And is a terror only at a distance;

For as the line of life conducts me on

To Death's great court, the prospect seems more fair. 'Tis Nature's kind retreat, that's always open

To take us in when we have drained the cup

Of life, or worn our days to wretchedness.

In that secure, serene retreat,

Where all the humble, all the great,

Promiscuously recline;

Where, wildly huddled to the eye,

The beggar's pouch and prince's purple lie,
May every bliss be thine.

And, ah! blest spirit, wheresoe'er thy flight,
Through rolling worlds, or fields of liquid light,
May cherubs welcome their expected guest,
May saints with songs receive thee to their rest;

May peace, that claimed while here thy warmest love, May blissful, endless peace be thine above!

SONG. BY A WOMAN.

Lovely, lasting Peace, below,
Comforter of every woe,

Heavenly born, and bred on high,
To crown the favourites of the sky;
Lovely, lasting Peace, appear;
This world itself, if thou art here,

Is once again with Eden blest,

And man contains it in his breast.

WOMAN SPEAKER.

Our vows are heard! long, long to mortal eyes,
Her soul was fitting to its kindred skies;

Celestial-like her bounty fell,

Where modest want and silent sorrow dwell:

Want passed for merit at her door,

Unseen the modest were supplied,

Her constant pity fed the poor,—

Then only poor, indeed, the day she died.
And, oh, for this, while sculpture decks thy shrine,
And art exhausts profusion round,

The tribute of a tear be mine,

A simple song, a sigh profound.

There Faith shall come a pilgrim grey,
To bless the tomb that wraps thy clay;

And calm Religion shall repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there.

Truth, Fortitude, and Friendship shall agree
To blend their virtues while they think of thee.

AIR.-CHORUS.

Let us-let all the world agree,
To profit by resembling thee.

PART II.

OVERTURE.—Pastorale.

MAN SPEAKER.

Fast by that shore where Thames' translucent stream
Reflects new glories on his breast,
Where, splendid as the youthful poet's dream,
He forms a scene beyond Elysium blest;
Where sculptured elegance and native grace
Unite to stamp the beauties of the place;
While, sweetly blending, still are seen
The wavy lawn, the sloping green;

While novelty, with cautious cunning,
Through every maze of fancy running,
From China borrows aid to deck the scene :-
There, sorrowing by the river's glassy bed,
Forlorn a rural band complained,

All whom Augusta's bounty fed,
All whom her clemency sustained.