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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!
Nor o'er the son alone your sorrows shed !

Another strain the parent's woes require !
O sooth his anguish! raise his drooping head,

And to his Dawson's praises tune the lyre!
Thus shall a gleam of joy at times succeed,
Recall the wonted lustre of his

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;
If learned elegance, and taste refined,

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;
In life's high scene had borne a longer part,

And raised a nation's glory with his own.
This Fate forbad, and snatched him from our eyes,
She took ('twas all she could,) his fleeting

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,
For this immortal gift to speak Thy praise !
How shall my heart its grateful sense reveal,
When all the energy

of words must fail?
O may its influence in my life appear,
And ev'ry action prove my thanks sincere !
Grant me, great God, a heart to Thee inclin'd,
Increase my faith, and rectify my mind :
Teach me betimes to tread Thy sacred ways,
And to Thy service consecrate my days.
Still, as thro' life's perplexing maze I stray,
Be Thou the guiding star to mark my way,
Conduct the steps of my unguarded youth,
And point their motions to the paths of truth.
Protect me by Thy providential care,
And warn my soul to shun the tempter's snare.

Thro' each event of this inconstant state,
Preserve my temper equal and sedate.
Give me a mind that nobly can despise
The low designs and little arts of vice,
Be my Religion such as taught by Thee,
Alike from pride and superstition free.
Inform my judgment, regulate my will,
My reason strengthen, and my passions still.
Amidst the pleasures of a prosperous state,
Whose flatt'ring charms th' untutor’d heart elate;
May I reflect to whom those gifts I owe,
And bless the bounteous hand from whence they

flow.
Or, if an adverse fortune be my share, ,
Let not its terrors tempt me to despair ;
But fixt on Thee a steady faith maintain,
And own all good, which Thy decrees ordain;
On thy unfailing providence depend,
The best Protector, and the surest Friend!.

TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. ELIZABETH CARTER.

Mrs, Hunter.

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

flow'r.

Mild in the even temper of her mind,

Benevolent to all, to merit just,
Still on the side of mercy most inclin'd,

Unwillingly she blamed; where blame she must.
Pious as learned, and in faith sincere,
Her trust was fix'd on Heaven, her hope already

there.
Oh Virtue! how divine thy form appears,

Adorn'd by genius, and with knowledge crown'd;
When smiles benign thy lovely aspect wears,

When gentle charities thy throne surround!
Such was the blessed spirit now at rest,
Releas'd from mortal cares to mingle with the

bless'd.

2

MY BROTHER'S GRAVE.

John Moultrie, Esq. then aged 15.
Beneath the chancel's hallow'd stone,

Expos’d to ev'ry rustic tread,
To few, save rustic mourners, known,

My brother, is thy lowly bed.
Few words upon the rough stone graven,

Thy name, thy birth, thy youth declare,
Thy innocence, thy hopes of heaven,

In simplest phrase recorded there;
No 'scutcheons shine, no banners wave,

In mockery o'er my brother's grave.
The place is silent ;-rarely sound
Is heard those ancient walks around;
No mirthful sound of friends that meet
Discoursing in the public street;
Nor hum of business, dull and loud,
Nor murmur of the passing crowd,
Nor soldier's drum, nor trumpet's swell,
From neighb'ring fort or citadel;
No sound of human toil or strife,
To Death's lone dwelling speak of life ;

Nor breaks the silence, still and deep,

Where thou, beneath thy burial stone,
Art laid, in that unstartled sleep

The living eye hath never known!
The lonely sexton's footstep falls
In dismal echoes on the walls,
As slowly pacing thro' the aisle

He sweeps th' unholy dust away, ,
And cobwebs, which must not defile

Those windows on a sabbath day;
And passing thro' the central nave,
Treads lightly on my brother's grave.
But, when the sweet-toned sabbath chime,

Pouring-it's music on the breeze,
Proclaims the well-known holy time

Of prayer, and thanks, and bended knees; When rustic crowds devoutly meet,

And lips and hearts to God are given,
And souls enjoy oblivion sweet

Of earthly ills in thoughts of heaven;
What voice of calm and solemn tone
Is heard above thy burial stone ?
What form in priestly meek array
Beside the altar kneels to pray?
What holy hands are lifted up
To bless the sacramental cup ?
Full well I know that reverend form:

And, if a voice could reach the dead,
Those tones would reach thee ;--but the worm,

My brother, makes thy heart his bed ;-
That Sire who thy existence gave,
Now stands beside thy lowly grave.
I feel not now, as then I felt,-

The sunshine of my heart is o'er ;
The spirit now is chang’d, which dwelt

Within me in the days before.
But thou wert snatch'd, my brother, hence
In all thy guileless innocence ;

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