Rivers unknown to song; where first the sun Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam Flames on th' Atlantic isles; 'tis nought to me: Since God is ever present, ever felt,

In the void waste as in the city full;

And where He vital breathes, there must be joy.
When even at last the solemn hour shall come,
And wing my mystic flight to future worlds,
I cheerful will obey; there, with new powers,
Will rising wonders sing: I cannot go
Where universal love smiles not around,
Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns;
From seeming evil still educing good,
And better thence again, and better still,
In infinite progression. But I lose
Myself in Him, in Light Ineffable;

Come then, expressive silence, muse His praise!

ODE

ON THE DEATH OF MR. THOMSON,

BY MR. COLLINS.

The sone of the following Stanzas is supposed to lie on the Thames, near Richmoud.

IN yonder grave a Druid lies,

Where slowly winds the stealing wave; · The year's best sweets shall duteous rise, To deck its poet's sylvan grave!

In yon deep bed of whispering reeds
His airy harp shall now be laid;

That he whose heart in sorrow bleeds
May love through life the soothing shade.

Then maids and youths shall linger here,
And while its sounds at distance swell,
Shall sadly seem, in pity's ear,

To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell.

Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore,

When Thames in summer wreaths is drést;

And oft suspend the dashing oar,
To bid his gentle spirit rest!

And oft as ease and health retire,

To breezy lawn, or forest deep,

The friend shall view yon whitening spire,
And 'mid the varied landscape weep.

But Thou! who own'st that earthy bed,
Ah! what will every dirge avail!
Or tears, which love and pity shed,
That mourn beneath the gliding sail !

Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye
Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimm'ring near!
With him, sweet bard, may fancy die,
And joy desert the blooming year.

But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide
No sedge-crown'd sisters now attend,
Now waft me from the green hill's side,
Whose cold turf hides the buried friend!

And see the fairy valleys fade;

Dun night has veil'd the solemn view!
Yet once again, dear parted shade,
Meek nature's child, again adieu !

The genial meads, assign'd to bless

Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom; There hinds, and shepherd-girls, shall dress, With simple hands, thy rural tomb.

Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay,
Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes!
O! vales, and wild woods, shall he say,
In yonder grave your Druid lies!

FINIS.