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While, as on his, with softest zephyrs fann'd,
Youth's freshest blossoms on your boughs appear, Like some untimely frost, Death's chilling hand
May nip the promise of the opening year! How oft you join'd him at th' accustomed hour,
When, led by Learning's hand, yon pile he sought; How oft, while ev'ning reigned, in yonder bower,
Warm glowed his bosom with poetic thought! For well the golden lyre his fingers strung;
To him the Muse her richest treasures gave; But Death, regardless of the strains he sung,
Frowned on the bard, and snatched him to the grave. Where now that glowing mind, those raptured lays,
That late were wont to charm the list’ning ear? He lived,—you graced him living with your praise ;
He died :-O! grace his memory with a tear!
Another strain the parent's woes require !
And to his Dawson's praises tune the lyre!
eye ; Bid his sad bosom cease awhile to bleed,
And check the progress of the bursting sigh! Say that, to titles born, he knew no pride ;
No vice he knew, his breast was Virtue's throne ! Beloved, adored, by all the world beside,
He was unconscious of his worth alone! Folly for him spread all her lures in vain,
In vain, with ev'ry art, she strove to please! He spurned her presents, broke her galling chain,
And climbed fair Virtue's sacred hill with ease. Say that, if innate purity of mind,
Pity to feel, and charity to save;
Could charm the ruthless bosom of the Grave
He still had lived to cheer a parent's heart,
A parent happy in his son's-renown;
And raised a nation's glory with his own.
breath; Beyond her power, he re-ascends the skies,
Disdains the sepulchre, and smiles on death. Yes, honoured youth! in ev'ry gentle breast
Thy name shall live for ages yet to come : By ev'ry Muse thy worth shall be confest,
And Virtue's self shall weep upon thy tomb! Tell then, blest spirit, tell the thoughtless crew, Who boast their youth, that youth will soon
be o'er; Bid them reflect, and, provident like you,
Improve, while yet they may, the present hour.
ON MY BIRTH-DAY.Mrs. Carter.
AUTHOR of life! in vain my tongue essays,
of words must fail?
Thro' each event of this inconstant state,
TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. ELIZABETH CARTER.
WITHIN the silent chambers of the dead,
Her sacred clay lies wrapp'd in peaceful sleep, With years and honour crown'd. Time gently led
Her steady footsteps down the giddy steep Of human life; surrounded by the blaze Of talents, fair desert, and high distinguish'd
praise. In early youth, from Pleasure's train retir’d,
Willing she trod stern Learning's rugged way; By praise undazzled, humble, tho admir'd,
She tun'd her lyre to Wisdom's moral lay; Ev’n in that season, when the sportive pow'r Of Fancy strews our path with many a blooming
Mild in the even temper of her mind,
Benevolent to all, to merit just,
Unwillingly she blamed; where blame she must.
Adorn'd by genius, and with knowledge crown'd;
When gentle charities thy throne surround!
MY BROTHER'S GRAVE.
John Moultrie, Esq. then aged 15.
Expos’d to ev'ry rustic tread,
My brother, is thy lowly bed.
Thy name, thy birth, thy youth declare,
In simplest phrase recorded there;
In mockery o'er my brother's grave.
Nor breaks the silence, still and deep,
Where thou, beneath thy burial stone,
The living eye hath never known!
He sweeps th' unholy dust away, ,
Those windows on a sabbath day;
Pouring-it's music on the breeze,
Of prayer, and thanks, and bended knees; When rustic crowds devoutly meet,
And lips and hearts to God are given,
Of earthly ills in thoughts of heaven;
And, if a voice could reach the dead,
My brother, makes thy heart his bed ;-
The sunshine of my heart is o'er ;
Within me in the days before.