Unknown the region of his birth,

The land in which he died unknown, His name hath perished from the earth, This truth survives alone

That joy and grief, and hope and fear,
Alternate triumph in his breast,
This bliss and woe, a smile, a tear!
Oblivion hides the rest

The bounding pulse, the anguid limb,
The changing spirits' rise and fall,
We know that these were felt by him,
For these are felt by all.

He suffer'd-but his pangs are o'er,
Enjoyed-but his delights are fled,
Had friends his friends are now no more,
And foes-his foes are dead.

He loved-but whom he loved, the grave
Hath lost in its unconscious womb;
O she was fair! but nought could save
Her beauty from the tomb.

The rolling seasons, day and night,

Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main, Erewhile his portion, life and light, To him exist- -in vain.

He saw whatever thou hast seen,
Encountered all that troubles thee,

He was whatever thou hast been,
He is what thou shalt be!

The clouds and sunbeams o'er his eye,
That once their shade and glory threw,
Have left in yonder silent sky

No vestige where they flew !

The annals of the human race,
Their ruin since the world began,

Of him afford no other trace

Than this-THERE LIVED A MAN.

ON THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.

Lord Byron.

HARK! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds,
A long low distant murmur of dread sound,
Such as arises when a nation bleeds

With some deep and immedicable wound;

Through storm and darkness yawns the rending ground,
The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief
Seems royal still, though with her head discrown'd,
And pale, but lovely with maternal grief,

She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief.

Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou?
Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead?
Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low
Some less majestic, less beloved head?

In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled,
The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy,
Death hush'd that pang for ever: with thee fled
The present happiness and promised joy

Which fill'd the imperial isles so full it seem'd to cloy.

D

Peasants bring forth in safety,Can it be,
Oh thou that wert so happy, so adored!

Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee,
And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard
Her many griefs for ONE; for she had pour'd
Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head
Beheld her Iris.-Thou, too, lonely lord,
And desolate consort-vainly wert thou wed;
The husband of a year! the father of the dead!

Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made;
Thy bridal's fruit is ashes: in the dust
The fair-haired daughter of the isles is laid.
The love of millions! How we did entrust
Futurity to her! and, though it must
Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem'd
Our children should obey her child, and bless'd

Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seem'd

Like stars to shepherd's eyes :-'twas but a meteor deem'd.

CONSTANCY.

Mrs. Opie.

THEN be it so, and let us part,

Since love like mine has fail'd to move thee;
But do not think this constant heart

Can ever cease, ingrate, to love thee.

No-spite of all thy cold disdain,

I'll bless the hour when first I met thee,

And rather bear whole years of pain

Then e'en for one short hour forget thee.

Forget thee No.

Still Memory, now my only friend,

Shall with her soothing art endeavour
My present anguish to suspend,

By painting pleasures lost for ever,
She shall the happy hours renew,

When full of hope and smiles I met thee,
And little thought the day to view,

When thou wouldst wish me to forget thee.

Forget thee Nike

Yet, I have lived to view that day,

To mourn my past destructive blindness,
To see now turn'd with scorn away

Those eyes once fill'd with answering kindness.
But
go-farewell! and be thou blest,

If thoughts of what I feel will let thee:
Yet, though thy image kills my rest,
'Twere greater anguish to forget thee.

Forget thee! No

A SCENE OF MISERY, OCCASIONED BY GUILT.

A DREADFUL Winter came, each day severe,
Misty when mild, and icy cold when clear;
And still the humble dealer took his load,
Returning slow, and shiv'ring on the road:
The lady, still relentless, saw him come,
And said, 'I wonder has the wretch a home?'
'A hut! a hovel!'

To suit his crime.

Then his fate appears
Yes, lady, not his years;

Crabbe.

No! nor his sufferings, nor that form decay'd:'-
Well! let the parish give its paupers aid:
You must the vileness of his acts allow ;'—
And you, dear lady, that he feels it now :'
When such dissemblers on their deeds reflect,
Can they the pity they refus'd expect?
He that doth evil, evil shall he dread.'-

The snow,' quoth Susan, falls upon his bed,-
It blows beside the thatch-it melts upon his head'.-
‹ 'Tis weakness, child, for grieving guilt to feel ;'-
◄ Yes, but he never sees a wholesome meal;
Through his bare dress appears his shrivel'd skin,
And ill he fares without, and worse within :
With that weak body, lame, diseased, and slow,
What cold, pain, peril, must the sufferer know!'
Think on his crime.'- Yes, sure 'twas very wrong;
But look (God bless him!) how he gropes along.'-

Brought me to shame.'-Oh! yes, I know it all—
What cutting blast! and he can scarcely crawl;
He freezes as he moves-he dies! if he should fall:
With cruel fierceness drives this icy sleet,—
And must a Christian perish in the street,

In sight of Christians?- -There! at last he lies:
Nor unsupported can he ever rise;

He cannot live.'-' But is he fit to die ??

Here Susan softly mutter'd a reply,

Look'd round the room-said something of its state, Dives the rich, and Lazarus at his gate;

And then aloud--' In pity do behold

The man affrighten'd, weeping, trembling, cold: Oh! how these flakes of snow their entrance win Through the poor rags, and keep the frost within ; His very heart seems frozen as he goes,

Leading that starved companion of his woes;