Wide round she spacious heavens I cast my eyes;
And shall these stars glow with immortal fire,
Still shine the lifeless glories of the skies,
And could thy bright, thy living soul expire?

Far be the thought

The pleasures most sublime, The glow of friendship, and the virtuous tear, go The towering wish that scorns the bounds of time, Chill'd in this vale of Death, but languish here.

So plant the vine on Norway's wintery land,
The languid stranger feebly buds, and dies:
Yet there's a clime where Virtue shall expand
With godlike strength, beneath her native skies.

The lonely shepherd on the mountain's side,
With patience waits the rosy opening day;
The mariner at midnight's darksome tide,

With chearful hope expects the morning ray. 00

Thus I, on Life's storm-beaten ocean tost,
In mental vision view the happy shore,
Where POLLIO beckons to the peaceful coast,
Where Fate and Death divide the friends no more.

Oh that some kind, some pitying kindred shade,
Who now, perhaps, frequents this solemn grove,
Would tell the awful secrets of the Dead,

And from my eyes the mortal film remove!

Vain is the wish-yet surely not in vain
Man's bosom glows with that celestial fire,
Which scorns earth's luxuries, which smiles at pain,
And wings his spirit with sublime desire.

To fan this spark of heaven, this ray divine,
Still, oh my soul! still be thy dear employ;
Still thus to wander thro' the shades be thine,
And swell thy breast with visionary joy.

So to the dark-brow'd wood, or sacred mount,
In antient days, the holy Seers retir'd,
And, led in vision, drank at Siloe's fount,

While rising extasies their bosoms fir'd ;

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Restor❜d Creation bright before them rose,
The burning desarts smil'd as Eden's plains,
One friendly shade the wolf and lambkin chose,
The flowery mountain sung, "Messiah reigns !"

Tho' fainter raptures my cold breast inspire,
Yet, let me oft frequent this solemn scene,

Oft to the abbey's shatter'd walls retire,

What time the moonshine dimly gleams between.

There, where the cross in hoary ruin nods,

And weeping yews o'ershade the letter'd stones, While midnight silence wraps these drear abodes,

And sooths me wandering o'er my kindred bones,

Let kindled Fancy view the glorious morn,

When from the bursting graves the just shall rise, All Nature smiling, and by angels borne,

Messiah's cross far blazing o'er the skies.

ELEGY VIII.

THE

CHELSEA PENSIONER.

BY SIR JOHN HENRY MOORE, BART.

BENEATH that mouldering turret's gloomy shade, Where yonder pines their wide-spread branches

wave,

A gallant Veteran rests his weary head,

And with him sleep his sorrows in the grave.

No breathing art adorns the sacred ground,
Points the tall spire, or bids the trophy rise,
A scanty turf with twisted osier bound

Scarce marks the spot where buried honor lies.

Ah, what avails him, that in youth's gay prime
Each unremitting toil of war he bore,
Each sickly change of every varying clime,
From Europe's strand to Asia's sultry shore?

How short the glory of the poor man's deeds!
How slight the fame he fondly thinks his own!
In vain he triumphs, or in vain he bleeds,
Alike unwept, unpitied, and unknown.

Yet though no plumed steeds, no sable car,
Call forth the hireling's mercenary tear,
No blazon'd banners streaming from afar

Flaunt their vain honors o'er thine humble bier; 20

Yet on the margin of the path-worn green,

Near the lov'd spot where thy cold relics rest, Fair virtue's angel-form shall oft be seen

To bid the turf lie lightly on thy breast.

The thoughtless many, the misjudging croud,
Whose glance scarce beams beyond the present
hour,

May idolize the follies of the proud,

Or bend submissive at the shrine of pow'r ;

But with the chosen band, the manly few,
Whose sober approbation far outweighs,
In reason's scale, the clamorous fickle crew,
And the vain tumult of their fleeting praise-

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-(Scorning the pageantry of pomp, and place)
Their hearts shall pay the tributary sigh
To that poor virtue, from whose humble base
Tow'r'd the proud columns that insult the sky.