Saw ye not the wheels of fire, When his mantle dropp'd behind ? Ye that caught it as it fell, Bind that mantle round your breast; Yet, rejoicing in his lot, Still shall Memory love to weep Where his dear cold relicks sleep. Grave! the guardian of his dust, Rests in hope again to rise. Hark! the judgment-trumpet calls, "Soul, re-build thine house of clay: Immortality thy walls, And Eternity thy day!" SHEFFIELD, 1803. ALCEUS. STANZAS. How gloomy this castle, that frowns o'er the sea, But ah! 'tis a scene that is charming to me, And methinks on these shores I could linger all day, For amid the dark prospect and wearisome way Perhaps he has trod in the path I now tread, And haply for me a fond tear he has shed, O days of illusion! why fled ye so fast? O days of illusion! still dear to my heart, What tho' at the light of conviction I start, And did my Beloved e'er sorrow for me? When he wander'd alone on the banks of the sea, Ah yes ! 'mid these scenes I was dear to his heart, Nor could absence my image remove; Nor could chilling Indifference her torpor impart, While Solitude smil'd upon Love. But, alas! to fine cities he hasten'd away, For soon he could seek the abodes of the gay, Ah beautiful ladies, I envy your lot! Ye are near him! Ye hear his sweet voice! He dwells on your graces, while I am forgot, And, while I am sad, ye rejoice! But wherefore did Jealousy whisper that thought ? For he values not beauty alone ; Nor forgets the fond heart, with pure tenderness fraught, That Sympathy binds to his own. And soon to the hills of the south I shall go, And I'll search if I cannot descry Where he dwells, 'mid those fanes, in the vallies below, That glitter so bright in the sky. For 'twill soothe my sad bosom to think he is near, And there, while I wander, I'll check ev'ry tear, Yet to think on the blessings that might have been mine; -Ah! even now the tear starts to my eye: It falls, a fond tribute, on Sympathy's shrine, With Hope's trembling, last-lingering sigh. And no more will I weakly repine at my state, N. S. S. L. EPIGRAM. SQUANDER, who ne'er thro' sickness kept his bed, Ties up his knocker:-doleful, dismal sight! -Not that he trembles for an aching head, But clamorous Duns the Neighbours may affright! ODE TO THE SKY-LARK. SWEETEST warbler of the skies, I love to hear thy matin lay, With wearied wing, and beating breast, Ah! who that hears thee carol free Those jocund notes of liberty, And sees thee independent soar, With gladsome wing, the blue sky o'er, In wiry cage would thee restrain, To pant for liberty in vain ; |