ORIGINAL POETRY.

For the Anthology.

WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF ARTHUR M. WALTER, ESQ.

IF from the aching bosom of a friend,
Which recent wounds still bleeding sorrows rend,
Might strains of artful melody resound,
And faithfully define his woe profound;

O Walter, I would dwell upon thy name,

My soul should oft thy hymned memorial frame.
Yet, though the fulness of my burdened heart
Strains most unequal to thy worth impart,

Thou knowest my claim to lead the sorrowing throng,
Though skill nor genius aid my humble song:-
The friendly love, thou living didst not spurn,
May pour the lay, though artless, o'er thy urn.

O memory, then, one healing pause dispense,
A needful respite from my pains intense;
And my peculiar sorrows so beguile,
As e'en my friendship were forgot the while:
But draw around me all the shadowy train
Of arts and virtues, that his death complain;
Calmly their several griefs let me relate,
With tearless eye each sad bereavement state.

Science, 'tis thine to mourn thy favourite dead :---
With sable hangings be thy temple spread;
And in the cypress grove's most dim retreat,
That bounds thy Academe, thy votaries meet.
Who now among thy wandering sons shall stand,
Thy sacred laurel in his gifted hand,

And bid them hope, the faithless world again

Shall love thy rites, and crowd thy honoured fane ?-
And bid them rear thy altar, and believe,
Thy worship shall degenerate man retrieve?
Whilst they, as erst from out the mystick shrine
'Mid Delphick shades, shall hear thy voice divine.

Oh, he was nurst to love thee and revere !
And thou didst smile his youthful vows to hear:
As if, like him, the wisest of our race,
Heaven moved to ask each highest gift of grace,
Thy love had bade him, by thy altar's side,
Claim each best boon, nor fear to be denied.

He knew, that science did from heaven descend,
And therefore judged, that she was virtue's friend;
Nor doubted, so his moral creed had charged,
The soul grows better, as the mind's enlarged.

Struck with her charms, that bade his heart disclaim Each mean attachment, each ignoble aim,

From the loud throng, that sordid passions sway,
In early life he took his separate way,

To trace her out beside her fountain springs,
And there commune concerning highest things.
Thus, while her power and glories he surveyed,
Each varied excellence his mind essayed :
Hence in her cause his zeal continual burned,
And hence each low inglorious toil he spurned,
To spread her soft dominion o'er mankind,
The worthy bias of his godlike mind.

How fitted was he for the high employ,
Witness in early youth his ardent joy,

When called to trace the steep and lengthened maze,
That leads where truth her purest light displays.

How promptly to the intercourse refined

Of each famed sage, that has adorned mankind,
Ancient or modern, were his steps impelled,

As with congenial inspiration filled.

Well pleased the patriarch's heaven-taught ways t' explore,
Nor less informed in evangelick lore;

Each sacred maxim while his life pursued,

That source sublime his eloquence imbued.

Tully, at once the orator and sage,

Could he forego thy all instructive page?

Or while the human heart's unfathomed ways,
Its wiles untold can int'rest or amaze,
Could, Tacitus, thy angry genius fail

To guide him through each gloomy-faithful tale?
Nor less the flowings of the Grecian lyre
Tempered with Attick sweets his Roman fire.
Ah, but for minds like his, how wrapt in dust
Each virtue of the ancient wise and just!
How lost those annals, that were meant to raise
From errors' depths e'en these abandon'd days!

Was it, that, frequent in communion high
With souls of men long past into the sky,
His more ethereal parts, that still aspired
Panting to follow, where those friends retired,

At length gained power to burst their bands of clay,

And prematurely sought the realms of day?

Sure on that hour my earthly eyes were dimmed,

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Struck with the rays from opening heaven that streamed,
Or I had seen, as near thy couch I stood,

The track of light thy fellow spirits trod.
Say, oh my heart, if near the scene allowed,
Where calm beneath him sunk the roseate cloud,
Had angels stopt their harps, that he might hear
Ere quite translated, what had been thy prayer?
Oh, thou wouldst ne'er, in sight of bliss divine,
Him thou so lovedst to mortal scenes confine :-
E'en though he fail to tell his earthly friends,
He left them not, till sure of vast amends;
Until permitted by the Almighty will
To hover o'er and be their guardian still.

Next, oh my country, in the weeping train
Thy genius mourns along the darkened plain.
Vol. IV. No. 2.

M

But wherefore? say, does not thy heaven-blest soil
Bid golden plenty in each valley smile?
Has not each billow, in thy numerous bays,
Brought foreign riches from a thousand seas?
Was't not alone to bless thy new-found shore,
That freedom left the realms of light once more?
And are thy sons to prize the boon unskilled,
Or weak their arms the envied wealth to shield?
While all these blessings in her presence shine,
Can private grief claim sympathy divine?
Alas! not causeless is the boding fear;

In times like these that starts the patriot tear;
While wisdom points,-how near the dread array!
At empires crushed and nations in dismay,-
Half dares despair for this our favoured land,

Where heaven-sent freedom took her last firm stand.
For even here, though freedom must prevail,
Till faithful virtue in her succours fail,
Yet virtue, that is human, will repine
E'en here, if learning and the arts decline.
Hence she already marks with watchful eyes,
What hopeful names among her sons arise;
What names, in whose protection to repose,
Though, marshalled near, she sees her Vandal foes,
What names to rescue truth's dishonoured cause,
And re-assert the majesty of laws;

To charm from faction's cause the simple throng,
Her falsehood listed, while they thought no wrong;
And without party craft persuade the crowd,
To know the policy, that seeks their good :
Among the great to check encroaching power,
And senates guide in each eventful hour,

From luxury's snares to guide her prosperous race,
And ancient manners by their lives replace.
But not the man, whose voice is oftenest heard,
In publick scenes, alone has she preferred;
Her eagle eyes the dim recess pervade,
Where noblest minds their patriot labours shade,
Great souls, reserved for times of highest need,
For whom she smiling weaves her brightest meed.
And shall her eyes be tearless, when deprived
Of one, in whom her dearest hopes survived?
Ah, she may soon, my heart forebodes, repine,
O, WALTER, soon, for virtues such as thine.
For though by taste and studious habits made
To enjoy each pleasure of the classick shade,
Yet sure a breast, with generous passion filled,
From publick use its talents ne'er withheld ;
True love of human kind, like his, could ne'er
From active life its needed powers forbear.
Then say, so long why barred the genial day
The treasures of his meditations lay?
Unbidden gleams of light enough were scen
To prove the quickening mine was ripe within :
Sole foible of each generous mind, behold,
'Twas modest fear forbade his powers unfold.
But long the enlightened soul cannot confine
Its gifted radiance; forth its powers will shine,
But heaven forbid then an inferiour theme!
Then speak the ample field, the end supreme.

Lo, his lov'd country, her defence and fame!
"Tis theirs his full-grown energies to claim.
Alas, her hopes, how blasted in their prime !
Anticipation, in the work sublime

Marking a splendid course, look'd up to hear
A hovering glory shake its wings in air;
But ah, the rushing sound, through æther driven,
That spirit gave, which vanished into heaven!

From converse with the immortal wise and good,
Whose real presence claim'd his solitude,
When to his friends he turned with looks serene,-
His looks announced perpetual calm within,-
How more instructive grew each social theme!
With what new thoughts did every subject teem!
His fluent reason seized the wandering thought,
And back to truth and taste from errour brought;
Within their minds, like dew upon the field,
His more than mortal meanings were instilled;
Hence, thoughtless whence the quickening force derived,
Their noblest powers but by his culture thrived.
Fondly their best propensities he'd tend,

But most the growths of liberal lore cor mend.

Oh with what care he'd guard the blooming round,
Where his fair influence cheered the favoured ground,
From every poisonous damp and every weed,

That blights the plant, or checks the genial seed?
But most from avarice; though its rind of gold
Belies the fruitlessness its leaves infold;
And though like gems its settling mildew glows,-
For lucre still will canker where it grows ;-
And still the seeds of sense and learning thrive,
But where the liberal passions all may live.
Nor was his genius of that cast severe,
Which keeps the gaieties of life in fear.
He'd join each circle grouped for festive joy,
As long as wit and innocence stood by ;
As long as health could o'er the bowl rejoice,
And vocal mirth drown slander's jargon voice;
Long as the praise of merit could be heard,
Or one wronged character remained uncleared:
Yet still by pleasure's softening arts uncaught,
Constant the awe of virtue in him wrought.
Thus the fair elm-tree, stable, solid, vast,

Shakes not its trunk, though whirlwinds drive the blast;
Yet, to each breeze, the gentlest zephyr sends,

Graceful each branch, and low its summit bends.

How frequent I his well-known door have sought,

Though health yet claimed no pause from studious thought; Urged him, from classick themes, or legal toil,

To roam as taste or faucy might beguile?

Strayed we where wealth convenes the sons of care?

He'd teach to prize a well-stored mind e'en there!

If rural fields, the sun-bright day, we trod,

Oh, there I learnt to adore the works of God!
How blest along the lawn or shady streams
T' indulge in pastoral or in classick dreams;
Or, listening, sit beside him to prolong
The copious flow of his instructive tongue;

And thence with furtive ear that knowledge glean,
In boasted volumes sought, but sought in vain!
And oft, alas, when filled with torturing care,
Unsuited life's disheartening ills to bear,
Too weak the world's injustice to sustain,...
The world, that heeds alone the loud and vain ;
While other friends or thought me fancy-lorn,
Or lent that pity, which e'en woe can scorn,
He gave the balm, that healed my wounded soul,
Councils, that e'en the angry fates control;
Called forth the powers, that in the mind expire,
Unless bold effort test their latent fire ;

Taught me that fortitude, which....ah, my breast!
Will it avail to soothe thy recent wounds to rest?

But stay my thoughts, nor range so near those scenes,
That wake anew thy own peculiar pains.
In vain...I see each loved memorial start,
Rush at the hint, and occupy my heart.
Still, still my hollow bosom swells with sighs,
How quick the tear-drops gather in mine eyes!
They ask that friend, whose ever-opening heart
Was filled with all that nature could impart ;
Whose glowing soul a brighter landscape drew
Than even nature to the poets' view.
How oft, alas, at summer's earliest hour,
Ere light had tipt the city's highest tower,
To where the morning broke, with golden light,
Upon the distant mountain's utmost height,
Together have we hied; with hasty tread
Wound through the pathless grove or misty mead,
Loitered adown the winding green lane, hedged
With wild-rose briars, or with myrtles edged;
Till from the pasture, scorched with noon-tide heat,
The birds chirp faint, the panting cattle bleat;
Then to the woodlands wild we'd bend our way,
In converse sweet there talk away the day:
There would I list that voice, whose silver tongue
Leaf-touching breeze or warbling brook out-sung.
That voice, as pure as is the faintest swell

Of sweet love's lute, returned from echo's cell.
Ah, now, like harp of dying bard, unstrung it lies;

But list! it breathes a strain still sweeter in the skies,

Now must I haste, for solace of my woe,
To tasks that check, though not subdue its flow:
For to those labours, which through every age
Mourners have sought, their anguish to assuage,—
If I betake me in the vale of tears,

Where sleeping worth the willowy shade endears;
Perhaps in scenes where nature seems to mourn,
Each object droops, and wears a look forlorn,
My woes, poured out amid surrounding grief,
In many an echoed sigh may find relief.

Oh, there I'll haste to bend o'er WALTER'S Urn,
Though friends at distance watch with deep concern;
Or with the world, the heartless world, conceive,
Madness alone can thus sincerely grieve.
And though,-for such as friendship ne'er carest,
How can they feel for the bereaved breast ?-