Then comes, sweet nymph, instead of thee,
The gloomy fiend, Stupidity.

O may that fiend be banish'd far,
Though passions hold perpetual war!
Nor ever let me cease to know
The pulse that throbs at joy or wo.
Nor let my vacant cheek be dry,
When sorrow fills a brother's eye;
Nor may the tear that frequent flows
From private or from social woes,
E'er make this pleasing sense depart:
Ye cares, handen not my heart!

If the fair star of fortune smile,
Let not its flatt'ring pow'r beguile;
Nor, borne along the fav'ring tide,
My full sails swell with bloating pride.
Let me from wealth but hope content,
Rememb'ring still it was but lent;
To modest merit spread my stone,
Unbar my hospitable door;
Nor feed, for pomp, an idle train,
While want unpitied pines in vain.

If Heav'n, in ev'ry purpose wise,
The envied lat of wealth denies ;
If doom'd to drag life's painful load
Through paverty's uneven road,

And for the due bread of the day,
Destin'd to toil as well as pray;
To thee. Humanity, still true,
I'll wish the good I cannot do;
And give the wretch, that passes by,
A soothing word—a tear—a sigh.

Howe'er exalted or deprest,
Be ever mine the feeling breast.
From me remove the stagnant mind
Of languid indolence, reclin'd;

The soul that one long sabbath keeps,
And through the sun's whole circle sleeps;

Dull peace, that dwells in folly's eye,
And self-attending vanity.

Alike the foolish and the vain

Are strangers to the sense humane.

O for that sympathetic glow

Which taught the holy tear to flow,
When the prophetic eye survey'd
Sion in future ashes laid;

Or, rais'd to heav'n, implor'd the bread
That thousands in the desert fed!
Or, when the heart o'er friendship's grave
Sigh'd and forgot its pow'r to save-
O for that sympathetic glow,

Which taught the holy tear to flow!

It comes: it fills my lab'ring breast,
I feel my beating heart opprest.
Oh! hear that lonely widow's wail!
See her dim eye; her aspect pale!
To Heav'n she turns in deep despair;
Her infants wonder at her pray'r,
And, mingling tears they know not why,
Lift up their little hands, and cry.
O Lord! their moving sorrows see!
Support them, sweet Humanity!

Life, fill'd with grief's distressful train,
For ever asks the tear humane.
Behold in yon unconcious grove
The victims of ill-fated love!
Heard you that agonizing throe?
Sure this is not romantic wo!
The golden day of joy is o'er;

And now they part-to meet no more.
Assist them, hearts from anguish free!
Assist them, sweet Humanity!

Parent of virtue, if thine ear

Attend not now to sorrow's cry;

If now the pity-streaming tear

Should haply on thy cheek be dry,

Indulge my votive strain, O sweet Humanity!

ELEGY.

Dark gathering clouds involve the threatening skies,

The sea heaves conscious of the impending gloom,

Deep, hollow murmurs from the cliffs arise; They come the Spirits of the Tempest come!

Oh! may such terrors mark the approaching night.

• As reign'd on that these streaming eyes deplore ! Flash, ye red fires of heaven, with fatal light, And with conflicting winds, ye waters roar !

•Loud and more loud, ye foaming billows! burst! Ye warring elements, more fiercely rave! Till the wide waves o'erwhelm the spot accurst, • Where ruthless Avarice finds a quiet grave!"

Thus with clasp'd hands, wild looks, and streaming hair,

While shrieks of horror broke her trembling speech,

A wretched maid—the victim of despair,

Survey'd the threatening storm and desart beech:

Then to the tomb where now the father slept Whose rugged nature bade her sorrows flow, Frantic she turn'd-and beat her breast and

wept,

Invoking vengeance on the dust below.

Lo! rising there above each lumber heap,
Yon cypher'd stones his name and wealth relate,
Who gave his son-remorseless--to the deep,
While I, his living victim, curse my fate.

Oh! my lost love! no tomb is plao'd for thee, That may to strangers eyes thy worth impart 3 • Thou hast no grave, but in the stormy sea, And no memorial but this breaking heart.

Forth to the world, a widow'd wanderer driven,
I pour to winds and waves the unheeded tear,
Try with vain effort to submit to heaven,
And fruitless call on him-" who cannot hear."

Oh! might I fondly clasp him once again, While o'er my head the infuriate billows pour, Forget in death this agonizing pain,

And feel his father's cruelty no more!

Part, raging waters part, and shew beneath,

In your dread cayes, his pale and mangled form;

Now, while the demons of despair and death

↑ Ride on the blast, and urge the howling storm!