With native Goodness, Taste, and Science fraught, Thine was the lib'ral heart, th' expanded thought, And, while thy eloquence our bosoms warm'd, Thy wit delighted, and thy sense inform'd. At home, by ev'ry social charm endear'd, Abroad, by an admiring world rever'd.
Long shall the conjugal, the filial tear,
Embalm thy ashes, and bedew thy bier;
Long shall thy sex thy bright example fire,
Thy fervid zeal their kindling breast inspire,
Like thee with active piety to soar,
And wisdom at its dazzling fount explore;
Life's transient day to pass, like thee, approv'd,
On earth applauded, and by Heav'n belov'd!
Addressed by Bettinelli to his Niece, then about to take the Veil.
FROM THE ITALIAN.
I, DEAREST Niece, first of our family,
Fled from the treach'rous waves and storms of life,
Nor ever could fair skies and flattering gales
Tempt me again to trust the dang'rous sea.
Still does the tempest beat the little bark
That bore me here, nor mid so deep a night
See I one star, whose friendly ray may save
The Mariner. Make you then for the port,
Toil for this holy haven! Innocence
And Virtue will assist ;-beloved! here
Is comfort, and the end of every ill.
And I have hope that we shall one day here
Beside the altar hang our broken sails,
And smile together at the distant storm.
ALEXANDER THOMSON, Esq.
Author of "The Paradise of Taste," &c.
THE moon emerging from the sparkling waves,
Flings her wan lustre o'er yon dewy graves;
Where shivering phantoms, as the pale beam falls,
Shrink to the gloom that shades yon hoary walls
There the green turf, by widowed Beauty blest,
Waves its chill'd verdure o'er her Poet's breast-
There viewless forms on whispering wings shall come,
When starry midnight lights her vaulted dome,
And pour the mournful music of the sky,
Where pale in death the unconscious relics lie.
Ah! in that hour when Friendship's watchful eye t
Saw o'er his cheek the transient hectics fly,
Still love believed-the fitful struggle past,-
The palsied bosom might revive at last;
On the 7th of November, 1808, in the evening, while this amiable and ingenious Poet was conversing with his friend, Dr. Robert Anderson, in the midst of his family, he was seized with a paralytic affection, which, in a moment, deprived him of sense and motion, and, in a few hours, of life, in the 43d year of his age. A disconsolate widow and six infant daughters survive to remember his virtues, to deplore his loss.
That life's pure stream might warm each frozen vein,
And chase the heavy stupor of the brain;
The pale damp brow, the cold convulsed frame,
The eye, where trembled life's expiring flame,
Bade the fond wish that fluttered round her heart,
In the last sigh of dying Hope depart.
Unwearied Friendship watch'd the labouring breath That shook the lip of agonized death,
Caught the last groan that heaved his aching breast,
Closed the dimm'd eye in everlasting rest,
And sooth'd the widow'd mourner's piercing cry,
While throbbed her heart in tearless agony.
To her sad breast her babes unconscious clung,
While transient grief each guileless bosom wrung;
'Tho' deep the sob, and keen the bitter sigh,
Light pass the woes of playful Infancy;
But can revolving Time, can Fancy's beam
Restore the bliss of Youth's romantic dream;
Or bid the soul, by secret anguish worn,
Own the warm transports of her early morn?
Even the gay flowers, by youthful genius wove,
A votive chaplet for the shrine of Love,
Glow for a while in heaven's celestial bloom,
Then fade and sicken in sepulchral gloom!
Oh, did thy soul in Deanston's* classic bower
Presage the anguish of this lonely hour?
Say, lovely Mourner, when the varying gale,
Blew from the mountain cliffs that shade the vale;
Or when the pine-tree bowed its stately form,
Flung its strong branch, and struggled with the storm.
* Near Down, in Monteith, the residence of the Poet in 1796 and 1797.
Oh! didst thou dream, that soon the storms would
And thy sad heart beat o'er the gloomy grave!
When Genius' woke for thee the living lyre,
And hovering Fancy gave her holiest fire;
While glowing scenes rush'd on thy Poet's eye,
Bright in the changing colours of the sky,
Thou sawest the fairy groves of Hope arise,
Peopled with forms from opening paradise,
And while she sung of blissful years to come,
Spread her light wings, and veiled the yawning tomb!
EDINBURGH, DEC. 24, 1803.
BY THEOPHILUS SWIFT, ESQ.
Extracted from an "Essay," composed by that gentleman, "On the Rise and Progress of Rhime," in the Transactions of the Royal Irish Academy for the year 1803.-This Song, as the Essay professes, is a translation of an Indian Song, composed in the language of the Naudowessees, one of the Huronic tribes in NorthAmerica.
ERE the rising sunbeams break,
I the lofty mountain seek;
Watch the new light's earliest ray,
Chasing the dark clouds away.
Spirit, hear! when comes the night,
Silver moon, O lend thy light!
To my tent oh speed my way,
Laden with the Hunter's prey!
EARTH's direst plagues alight on them,
Who yet arraign our Parent stem,
In Adam, who the love condemn
What if that rogue y'clep'd the Devil,
Prone much in wickedness to revel,
Did man's primeval grandeur level
Too well he knew, the wily Fiend,
Who must his artful tale attend,
So deeply work'd his fateful end
And yet but for that fruit of doom,
In vain were Eve's transcendent bloom;
For fruitless still had been the womb
Now who, from that decisive hour,
Though Fortune chill, and Misery sour,
Could long withstand the plastic pow'r
of Woman?
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