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-IV.

Genius of Albion, hear!

Grafp the strong fhield, and shake th' avenging spear.
By wreaths thy hardy fons of yore
From Gallia's creft victorious tore;
By Edward's lily-blazon'd shield;
By Agincourt's high-trophied field;
Ey rath Iberia's naval pride,

Whelm'd by Eliza's barks beneath the ftormy tide;
Call forth thy warrior race again,

Breathing to ancient mood the foul-inspiring strain;
"To arms! your enfigns straight display!
Now fet the battle in array!

The oracle for war declares,

Succefs depends upon our hearts and spears.

Britons ftrike home! revenge your country's wrongs;
Fight, and record yourselves in Druid fongs!"

ELEGY written in a CHURCH-YARD in SOUTH WALES.

[From POEMS by WILLIAM MASON, M. A. Vol. III.]

ROM fouthern Cambria's richly varied clime,

FROM

Where grace and grandeur fhare an equal reign;
Where cliffs o'erhung with fhade, and hills fublime
Of mountain lineage fweep into the main;
From bays, where commerce furls her wearied fails,
Proud to have dar'd the dangers of the deep,
And floats at anchor'd cafe inclos'd by vales,
To ocean's verge where ftray the vent'rous sheep:
From brilliant fcenes like these I turn my eye;
And, lo! a folemn circle meets its view,
Wall'd to protect inhum'd mortality,

And fliaded close with poplar and with yew.
Deep in that dell the humble faue appears,

Whence prayers if humble best to heaven afpire;
No tower embattled, no proud fpire it rears,
A mofs-grown croflet decks its lowly choir.
And round that fane the fons of toil repofe,

Who drove the plough-fhare, or the fail who spread;
With wives, with children, all in meafur'd rows,
Two whiten'd flint-ftones mark the feet and head.
While these between full many a fimple flow'r,
Panfy, and pink, with languid beauty fmile;
The primrose opening at the twilight hour,
And velvet tufts of fragrant chamomile.
For, more intent the fmell than fight to please,
Surviving love felects its vernal race;

Plan

Plants that with early perfume feed the breeze
May beft each dank and noxious vapour chafe.
The flaunting tulip, the carnation gay,

Turnfole and piony, and all the train

That love to glitter in the noon-tide ray,

Ill fuit the copfe where death and filence reign.
Not but perchance, to deck fome virgin's tomb,
Where violets fweet their twofold purple fpread,
Some rofe of maiden bluth may faintly bloom,
Or with'ring hang its emblematic head.
These to renew with more than annual care
That wakeful love with penfive step will go;
The hand that lifts the dibble fhakes with fear
Left haply it disturb the friend below.
Vain fear! for never fhall difturber come
Potent enough to wake fuch fleep profound,
Till the dread herald to the day of doom

Pours from his trump the world-diffolving found.
Vain fear! yet who that boasts a heart to feel,
An eye to pity, would that fear reprove?
They only who are curft with breafts of steel
Can mock the foibles of furviving love.
Thofe foibles far beyond cold reason's claim
Have power the focial charities to fpread;
They feed, fweet tendernefs! thy lambent flame,
Which, while it warms the heart, improves the head.
Its chemic aid a gradual heat applies

That from the drofs of felf each with refines,
Extracts the liberal fpirit, bids it rife

Till with primæval purity it fhines.

Take then, poor peasants, from the friend of Gray
His humbier praife; for Gray or fail'd to fee,

Or faw unnotic'd, what had wak'd a lay
Rich in the pathos of true peefy.

Yes, had be pac'd this church-way path along,
Or lean'd like me against this ivy'd wall,
How fadly fweet had flow'd his Dorian fong,

Then fweeteft when it flow'd at nature's call.
Like Tadmor's fting, his comprehenfive mind
Each plant's peculiar character could feize;
And hence his moralizing mufe had join'd,
To all thefe flow'rs, a thoufand fimiles.
But he, alas in diftant village-grave

*

Has mix'd with dear maternal duft his own;

This epithet is ufed to call to the reader's recollection a paffage in Shakespear, defcriptive of a character to which in its beft parts Mr. Gray's was not diffimilar. Duke Sen. But what faid Jaques ?

Did he not moralize this fpectacle?

Firft Lord. O yes, into a thousand fimiles.

As you like it, At 2. Scene 1.

Ev'n now the pang, which parting friendship gave,
Thrills at my heart, and tells me he is gone.
Take then from me the penfive ftrain that flows
Congenial to this confecrated gloom;

Where all that meets my eye fome fymbol fhows
Of grief, like mine, that lives beyond the tomb:
Shows me that you, though doom'd the livelong year
For fcanty food the toiling arm to ply,

Can fmite your breafts, and find an inmate there
To heave, when mem'ry bids, the ready figh.
Still nurfe that beft of inmates, gentle fwains!
Still act as heartfelt fympathy infpires;
The tafte, which birth from education gains,
Serves but to chill affection's native fires.
To you more knowledge than what shields from vice
Were but a gift would multiply your cares ;

Of matter and of mind let reafoners nice

Difpute; be patience yours, prefumption theirs.
You know (what more can earthly fcience know?)
That all muft die; by revelation's ray
Illum'd, you truft the aflies plac'd below

These flow'ry tufts, fhall rife again to day.
What if you deem, by hoar tradition led,
To you perchance devolv'd from Druids old,
That parted fouls at folemn feafous tread

The circles that their fhrines of clay enfold?
What if you deem they fome fad pleasure take
These poor memorials of your love to view,
And scent the perfume for the planter's fake,

That breathes from vulgar rofemary and rue?
Unfeeling Wit may fcorn, and Pride may frown;
Yet Fancy, emprefs of the realms of fong,
Shall blefs the decent mode, and reafon own
It may be right-for who can prove it wrong?

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There every figure ftands confeft,
In all the fweet advantage dreft

Of Candour's radiant robe-
There no mean cares admiffion find,
Love is the bufinefs of mankind,
And Honour rules the globe.

But if thofe gleams fallacious prove
That paint the world fo fair;
If heav'n has plac'd for gen'rous love
No foft afylum there;

If men fair faith, fair fame deride,
Bent on the crooked paths that guide
To Int'reft's fordid shrine;

Be yours, ye gloomy fons of Woe!
That melancholy truth to know,
The dream of blifs be mine.

SCENERY by MOONLIGHT, MELNA and the GROST of HIDALLAN.

[From the VALES of WEVER, a loco-defcriptive Pogм, by J. GISBORNE, Esq.

HERE as the filent orb of night

Silvers the crags with facred light,
Pours through the gaping rocks her beams,
And sheds a glory on the ftrearms,
Old towers and ramparts burft around,
Inchantment walks the hoary ground:
Black fhades contraft the illumin'd fcene,
And horror frowns thofe dells between.
Pale o'er the woodlands moonshine glows,
And pale the luftrous deluge flows,
Rolls o'er the graves on Wever's brow,
While yellow vapours fwim below.

Such scenes the forrowing Melna fought,
Her foul with pure affection fraught,
Pierc'd with quick ftep and throbbing breaft
Cona's rude vales, diftracted gueft;
Bath'd with unpitied tears the earth,
And figh'd and mourn'd her hapless birth;
Call'd on Hidallan's darling name,
And wail'd her warrior's thirst of fame.

Thus while fhe moan'd, remorfelefs night
Dimm'd the last blush of western light,

Wove

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