Let thy numbers soft and slow,

O'er the plain with carnage spread,
Soothe the dying, while they flow
To the memory of the dead.

None but solemn, tender tones,
Tremble from thy plaintive wires;
Hark! the wounded warrior groans!
Hush thy warbling,-he expires!

Hush!-while sorrow wakes and weeps;
O'er his relicks cold and pale,
Night her silent vigil keeps,

In a mournful moonlight veil.

Harp of Memnon! from afar,

Ere the lark salute the sky, Watch the rising of the star,

That proclaims the morning nigh.

Soon the sun's ascending rays,
In a flood of hallow'd fire,
O'er thy kindling chords shall blaze,
And thy magic soul inspire.

Then thy tones triumphant pour,

Let them pierce the Hero's grave:

'Life's tumultuous battle o'er,

O how sweetly sleep the brave!

From the dust their laurels bloom,

High they shoot, and flourish free; Glory's temple is the tomb!

Death is immortality!

SHEFFIELD, JUNE 2, 1801.

EPIGRAM.

ALCEUS.

SOME Men of Books are wond'rous nice
In buying all that's rare or choice ;-
Now Mævius, on a different plan,
Buys up the veriest trash he can,
And hoards, with avaricious glee,
His huge waste-paper library
In garrets, sheds, and lofts for hay,

Till tons of learning mould away :—

Mourn ye cook-shops and common sewers, The loss, alack! is wholly yours.

**

SONG.

BY MISS ANNA MARIA PORTER.

RING on! ring on, ye merry bells,
And be to others, sounds of gladness-
Alas! your silver sweetness swells

To wake my slumbering heart to madness.

Ring on! ring on! for since your chimes
Shall never now my wedding hallow,

O! be the voice of other times,

And rouse their joys, like spectres sallow!

Ah! ring such pensive peals as when

In these tall groves I wander'd sighing,

And listen'd to the best of men,

Who now in yonder grave is lying!

Ah! ring such peals as may recall
Those happy hours, now gone for ever;

And whilst the bitter tear-drops fall,
At once my soul and reason sever!

ΤΟ

A LADY

ON HER BIRTH DAY.

BY THE REV. W. BELOE.

KEEN blows the wind, and biting rains descend;
Boy! let the cheerful log improve the fire:
Here too, invite my fair, my lovely friend;
Meanwhile, from yon sear aspin bring the lyre.

Oh, lyre belov'd! I touch thy strings in vain;
Fancy, with all her flattering dreams, is fled,
Which once, with Hope and Pleasure in her train,
Twined her gay wreaths around my youthful head.

Yet once, once more assist the Poet's art,

When Friendship calls on MARY's natal morn; Once more, thy stronger, sweeter sounds impart, For then, were Grace and Truth and Pity born.

Hark! Or does aught beguile the listening ear?
Or does the lyre assist the Poet's art?
A softer minstrelsy I seem to hear,

Strains, not unworthy ev'n of MARY's heart.

Whilst Grace and Truth and Pity's self are dear, Which shine in MARY'S form, and MARY's breast, The Muse shall own, in each revolving year,

The kindred sounds by Friendship's voice exprest.

Boy! hang my lyre on yon sear branch again;
Youth may be gone, but Fancy is not dead!
MARY attends, nor disapproves the strain;
One myrtle sprig shall yet adorn my head.