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O'er the mock mourner's hard and scoffing mien, -Blotting the scene morn's tenderest beam
illumesIn contrast dire the' unwearied hearse is seen
To wave the terrors of its dusky plumes.
I pass, and shuddering mark how sculptured stones Press in rude throngs yon churchyard's crowd
ed round: The delving spade upturns commingled bones,
And lifeless forms contest the hallow'd ground. Even there where now my powerless limbs are
spread, Erewhile some equal sunk, delusion's prey ; Her last cold damps bedew'd the selfsame bed,
On the same sheet a shadowy corse she lay. When slow the secret fang has mined my breast,
And the tired pulse forgets its feverish play, Deep on my tomb—nor spurn this last behest
Let hands sincere inscribe the warning lay.
Stranger, though bold Imposture's arm would
grace (While fond Credulity applauds his care) With civic wreath the Genius of the place,
No healing spring he pours, no balmier air.
‘Him, for their heart's last hope, though parents hoar
[breath, Call with joint vows to soothe the struggling Still their joint vows in vain his aid implore,
And still his caves of Echo murmur death.'
WRITTEN AT THE HOTWELLS,
The morning wakes in shadowy mantle gray, The darksome woods their glimmering skirts
unfold, Prone from the cliff the falcon wheels her way,
And long and loud the bell's slow chime is toll’d. The reddening light gains fast upon the skies,
And far away the glistening vapours sail, Down the rough steep the’accustom'd hedger hies, And the stream winds in brightness through
the vale. How beauteous the pale rocks above the shore
Uplift their bleak and furrowed aspect high; How proudly desolate their foreheads hoar,
That meet the earliest sunbeam of the sky ! Bound to yon dusky mart *, with pennants gay,
The tall bark, on the winding water's line, Between the riven cliffs plies her hard way,
And peering on the sight the white sails shine. Alas! for those by drooping sickness worn,
Who now come forth to meet the cheering ray; And feel the fragrance of the tepid morn Round their torn breast and throbbing temples
play! Perhaps they muse with a desponding sigh
On the cold vault that shall their bones inurn; Whilst every breeze seems, as it whispers by,
To breathe of comfort never to return.
Yet oft, as sadly thronging dreams arise,
Awhile forgetful of their pain they gáze, A transient lustre lights their faded eyes,
And o'er their cheek the tender hectic strays. The purple morn that paints with sidelong gleam
The cliff's tall crest, the waving woods that ring With charm of birds rejoicing in the beam,
Touch soft the wakeful nerve's according string. Then at sad Meditation's silent hour
A thousand wishes steal upon the heart; And whilst they meekly bend to Heaven's high
power, Ah! think 'tis hard, 'tis surely hard to part To part from every hope that brought delight, From those that loved them, those they loved
so much! Then Fancy swells the picture on the sight,
And softens every scene at every touch. Sweet as the mellow'd woods beneath the moon,
Remembrance lends her soft uniting shades; Some natural tears she drops, but wipes them
The world retires, and its dim prospect fades! Airs of delight that soothe the aching sense,
Waters of health that through yon caverns glide, 0, kindly yet your healing powers dispense,
And bring back feeble life's exhausted tide! Perhaps to these gray rocks and mazy springs Some heart may come, warm’d with the purest'
fire, For whom bright Fancy plumes her radiant wings,
And warbling Muses wake the lonely lyre.
Some orphan maid, deceived in early youth,
Pale o'er yon spring may hang in mute distress; Who dreamt of faith, of happiness, and truth,
Of love—that Virtue would protect and bless. Some musing youth in silence there may bend,
Untimely stricken by sharp sorrow's dart; For friendship form’d, yet left without a friend,
And bearing still the arrow at his heart. Such was lamented Russel's hapless doom,
The gay companion of my stripling prime ; Even so he sunk unwept into the tomb,
And o'er his head closed the dark gulf of time. Hither he came *, a wan and weary guest,
A softening balm for many a wound to crave; And woo'd the sunshine to his aching breast,
Which now seems smiling on his verdant grave! He heard the whispering winds that now I hear,
As, boding much, along these bills he pass’d; Yet ah! how mournful did they meet his ear
On that sad morn he heard them for the last! So sinks the scene, like a departed dream, Since late we sojourn'd blithe in Wykeham's
bowers †, Or heard the merry bells by Isis' stream, And thought our way was strew'd with fairy Of those with whom we play'd upon the lawn
* The Rev. Thomas Russel, Fellow of New College, Oxford, author of some ingenious poems, died at the Hotwells, 1788, in the twenty-sixth year of his age.
+ Winchester College.
Of early life, in the fresh morning play'd; Alas! how many, since that vernal dawn,
Like thee, poor Russel, in the ground are laid. Joyous awhile they wander'd hand in hand,
By friendship led along the springtide plain! How oft did Fancy wake her transports bland,
And on the lids the glistening tear detain! I yet survive, now musing other song
Than that which early pleased my vacant years; Thinking how days and hours have pass'd along, Mark'd by much pleasure some, and some by
Thankful that to these verdant scenes I owe
That he * whom late saw, all drooping pale, Raised from the couch of sickness and of woe,
Now lives with me their mantling views to hail. Thankful that still the land ape aming bright,
Of pendent mountain or of woodland gray, Can wake the wonted sense of pure delight,
And charm awhile my solitary way. Enough :Through the high heavens the proud
sun rides, My wandering steps their silent path pursue Back to the crowded world where fortune guides :
Clifton, to thy white rocks and woods adieu !
* Mr. Howley.