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Is there no bright reversion in the sky,
For those who greatly think, or bravely die !

Wliy bade ye else, ye Pow'rs! her soul aspire
Above the vulgar Aight of low desire ?
Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes;
The glorious fault of Angels and of Gods:
Thence to their images on earth it flows,
And in the breasts of Kings and Heroes glows.
Most souls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age,
Dull sullen pris'ners in the body's cage:
Dim lights of life, that beam a length of years
Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres;
Like eastern Kings, a lazy state they keep,
And, close confin'd to their own palace, sleep,

From these perhaps (ere nature bade her die) Fate snatch'd her early to the pitying sky. As into air the purer spirits flow, And sép'rate from their kindred dregs below; So flew the soul to its congenial place, Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.

But thou, false guardian of a charge too good, Thou, mean deserter of thy brother's blood ! See on these ruby lips the trembling breath, These cheeks, now fading at the blast of death ; Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before, And those love-darting eyes must roll no more, Thus if eternal Justice rules the ball, Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall : The gaze

On all the line a sudden vengeance waits,
And frequent herses shall besiege your gates;
There passengers shall stand, and pointing say,
(While the long fun’rals blacken all the way)
Lo! these were they, whose souls the Furies

steel'd, And cursd with hearts unknowing how to yield. Thus unlamented pass the proud away,

of fools, and pageant of a day! So perish all, whose breast ne’er learnt to glow For other's good or melt at other's woe. What can atone (oh ever injur'd shade !) Thy fate unpity'd and thy rites unpaid? No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear Pleas'd thy pale ghost, or grac'd thy mournful

bier ; By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd, By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd, By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd, By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mour'd! What tho' no friends in sable weeds appear, Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year, And bear about the mockery of woe To midnight dances, and the public show? What tho' no weeping Loves thy ashes grace, Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face? What tho' no sacred earth allow thee room, Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb?

Yet shall thy grave with rising flow'rs be dressid, And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast : There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow, There the first roses, of the year shall blow ; Wbile Angels with their silver wings o'ershade The ground, now sacred by thy reliques made.

So peaceful, rests without a stone, a name, What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame, How lov’d, how honour'd once, avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot ; A heap of dust alone remains of thee, 'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!

Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung. Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue, Ev'n he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays, Shall shortly want, the gen'rous tear he pays; Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part, And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart Life's idle bus'ness at one grasp be o'er, The Muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more!


Where shade yon yews the church-yard's lonely

bourn, With faultering step, absorb'd in thought pro

found, Philemon wends in solitude to mourn, While evening pours her deep’ning glooms around.

Loud shrieks the blast, the sleety torrent drives,
Wide spreads the tempest's desolating power;
To grief alone Philemon reckless lives,
No rolling peal he heeds, cold blast, nor shower.

For this the date that stampt his partner's doom ;
His trembling lips received her latest breath.
"Ah! wilt thou drop one tear on Emma's tomb ?”
She cried : and clos'd each wistful eye in death.

No sighs he breath’d, for anguish rived his breast;
Her clay-cold band he grasp'd, no tears he shed,
Till fainting nature sunk by grief oppress’d,
And ere distraction came all sense was fed.

Now time has calm’d, not cur'd Philemon's woe,
For grief like his, life-woven, never dies;
And still each year's collected sorrows flow, .
As drooping o'er his Emma's tomb he sighs


o ! lay me where my child is laid,

And bind his turf upon my breast;
Here let me join his parted shade,

And gently sink with him to rest !

When peace and joy no more remain,

And gathering glooms the scene o'ercast;
When hope is heard, alas ! in vain;

The bitterness of death iś past!

0! lay me where my child is laid,

And bind his turf upon my breast;
Here, let me join his parted shade,

And gently sink with him to rest !

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