ELEGY.

EXULTS the fluttering heart, O Mortal-born, If Fame pronounce thee beautiful and wise, If pompous blazonry thy name adorn!

Approach, with trembling awe, where***** lies;

And pause; and know thy boasted honours vain. Vain all the gifts that fortune can bestow. Late shone around Her all the gorgeous train, But shine not round the mouldering dust below.

Gaz'd at from far by Envy's lifted eye

What then avails to deck th' exalted scene, If there the blasting storms of anguish fly, If Frailty there displays her withering mien ?

But Virtue (sacred plant!) no soil disdains;

The plant that Frailty's fiercest frown defies. Retir'd it blooms amid the lowly plains;

Or decks the mountain's brow that mates the skies,

And there conspicuous forms the Pilgrim's bower, When Sorrow darts direct the feverish ray; And forms his shelter from the tempest's power In stern Oppression's desolating day.

This, Grandeur, be thy praise; 'tis more than fame. This praise was Hers; yet not to this confin'd, Hers was th' indulgent soul untaught to blame, Hers all the graces of the mildest mind.

Slight is your wound, who mourn a Guardian lost, Though grief's sharp sting now prompt the pious

sigh;

He lives, the friend of man, the Muse's boast,
And Bounty's hand shall wipe your streaming eye.

But ah! what balm shall heal His bleeding heart,
Who for the Friend, and for the Lover mourns!
Of all the joys that friendship can impart,
When love's divinest flame united burns,

Possess'd so late! but now possess'd no more!
Thus triumphs fate o'er all that charms below;
Thus curbs the storm till joy's meridian hour,
To wrap the smiling scene in darker woe.

Sole object of a Mother's tender care,

Could ought of song avail to ease thy pain; Or charm a Parent's, Sister's, Friend's despair; Fain would the Muse attempt some soothing

strain.

But what can soothe, when Hope denies her aid! Far in the silent depth of yonder gloom, Where the weak lamp wan wavers o'er the dead,

She hides in sable dust her sparkling plume.

T'enrage their smart, Remembrance wakes severe, And bids the vanish'd years again to roll; Again they seem that soothing voice to hear,

Again those looks shoot transport to the soul. The vision flies, and leaves the mind to mourn, Saddening each scene that pleas'd while She was by;

For ah! those vanish'd years no more return; Mute the soft voice, and clos'd the gentle eye.

Come, Resignation, with uplifted brow,

And eye of rapture smiling though in tears; Come, for thou lov'st the silent house of woe, When no fond friend th' abandon'd mansion

cheers.

Come, for 'tis thine to soothe the Mourner's smart, The throbs of hopeless anguish to control, With healing balm to point Death's level'd dart, And melt in heavenly dreams the parting soul. We mark'd Thy triumphs in that hour of dread; When from Her eyes, that look'd a last adieu, Each weeping friend seem'd vanishing in shade, And darkening slow the swimming scene withdrew.

'Twas then, Her pale cheek caught Thy rapturous smile, [breast, Thy cheering whispers calm'd her labouring And hymns of quiring angels charm'd the while;

Till the weak frame dissolv'd in endless rest.

THE WOLF AND SHEPHERDS.

A FABLE.

LAWS, as we read in ancient sages,
Have been like cobwebs in all ages.
Cobwebs for little flies are spread,
And laws for little folks are made;
But if an insect of renown,
Hornet or beetle, wasp or drone,
Be caught in quest of sport or plunder,
The flimsy fetter flies in sunder.

Your simile perhaps may please one With whom wit holds the place of reason: But can you prove that this in fact is Agreeable to life and practice?

Then hear, what in his simple way
Old Esop told me t'other day.

In days of yore, but (which is very odd)
Our author mentions not the period,
We mortal men, less given to speeches,
Allow'd the beasts sometimes to teach us.
But now we all are prattlers grown,
And suffer no voice but our own:
With us no beast has leave to speak,
Although his honest heart should break.
'Tis true, your asses and your apes,
And other brutes in human shapes,

And that thing made of sound and show
Which mortals have misnam'd a beau
(But in the language of the sky
Is call'd a two-legg'd butterfly),

Will make your very heartstrings ache
With loud and everlasting clack,
And beat your auditory drum,

Till you grow deaf, or they grow dumb.
But to our story we return:
'Twas early on a Summer morn,
A Wolf forsook the mountain-den,
And issued hungry on the plain.

Full many a stream and lawn he pass'd,
And reach'd a winding vale at last;
Where from a hollow rock he spy'd
The shepherds drest in flowery pride.
Garlands were strow'd, and all was gay,
To celebrate an holiday.

The merry tabor's gamesome sound
Provok'd the sprightly dance around.
Hard by a rural board was rear'd,
On which in fair array appear'd
The peach, the apple, and the raisin,
And all the fruitage of the season.
But, more distinguish'd than the rest,
Was seen a wether ready drest,
That smoking, recent from the flame,
Diffus'd a stomach-rousing steam.
Our wolf could not endure the sight,
Outrageous grew his appetite: