He died and was buried the green hillock nigh, That rose by the side of the Cot. Then the Youth for some unknown delight heaved a sigh, 'Tis said, the next morn he arose with the day, No more in these deserts, he cry'd, will I stay, The BATTLE of PULTOWA. On Vorskas glittering waves They strain their aching eyes, Him Famine hath not tamed The tamer of the brave; Him Winter hath not quell'd, When man by man his veteran troops sunk down, Frozen to their endless sleep, He held undaunted on; Him Pain hath not subdued, 1 What tho' he mounts not now Go iron-hearted King! Full of thy former fame. Think how the humbled Dane Think how the wretched Pole Let Narva's glory swell thy haughty breast The death-day of thy glory Charles, hath dawn'd, Proud Swede, the Sun hath risen That on thy shame shall set! Now bend thine head from heaven, Now Patkul be revenged! For o'er that bloody Swede His laurels blasted to revive no more Long years of hope deceived That conquered Swede must prove, Long years of idleness That restless soul must bear, The Despot's savage anger took thy life, ERTHUSYO. LINES TO A BROTHER AND SISTER, Written soon after a Recovery from Sickness. By CHARLES LLOYD. I. "Tis surely hard the melancholy day To waste without the cheering voice of friend, To see the morning dart its golden ray, To see the night in misty dews descend, Nor catch one sound where Love and Meekness blend; 'Tis surely hard for him who knows how dear A kindred soul, eternally to send A fruitless prayer for smiles and words that cheer, The wish in looks revealed and rapture's holy tear, II. Him whom the spirit of Attachment warms, |