"And Death, with Nature's noblest works at strife, "Quench'd the fair star that smil'd upon his life."

LANGHORNA

Now the hollow drum resounding
Fir'd each valiant soldier's breast,
High the youthful spirits bounding
Future hours in conquest drest.

Brightly beam'd the eye of morning,
Gaily smil'd the face of spring,
Balmy sweets the sense delighted,

Borne on Zephyr's trembling wing.

Hark to the Cymbal's brazen clangor!
Hark to the trumpet's shrill reply!
Each brave heart shakes off its languor,
Proudly the crimson banners fly.

Now a cadence softly warbles,

"Tis the flute's melodious sound; Now the measure loudly swelling, Flings its awful thunder round.

See the gallant band advances!
Glitt'ring sabres brandish'd high;
Hope in ev'ry bosom dances,
Courage speaks in ev'ry eye.

But who is he that slowly follows?
Mark the grief that fades his form!
In each wan feature passion struggles,
Passions wild tumultuous storm.

View his glances quickly shifted!
View the mis'ry they express!
Now to Heav'n his eyes are lifted,
Now cast down in mute distress.

To him are lost Hope's siren accents,

Harsh are those spirit-waking strains;
On his lorn mind no morning opens,
There a night of sadness reigns.

But Honour's pow'rful voice prevailing
Breaks the spell that Fancy wove,
Tow'ring Fame at distance hailing
Drowns the timid voice of Love.

Now his footsteps fondly linger,

Mark! oh mark, the soul-fraught gaze! He views the fair departing lustre ;

The last-last glimpse of beauty's rays.

So the lost wretch whom Fate pursuing
Exiles from the light of day,
Once more the lovely landscape viewing
Dwells on each charm-then hastes away.

Thus did he seek the beauteous vision,

And thus each well-known grace explore,
Catch the soft day-break of those glances,
Whose brightness he must view no more.

Ah! ne'er again on him they rested,
Those liquid suns have ceas'd to roll;
Of all their sparkling pow'r divested,
No more they fire the raptur'd soul.

Pale is the cheek of polish'd texture,
Where once the rose of summer smil'd;
And those sweet lips, where Love resided,
Are of their honey'd store beguil'd.

Cold is that breast, of Heav'n the dwelling,
Which once with noblest feeling glow'd;
No more with soft compassion swelling,
No more of Truth the pure abode.

Beneath the turf now pow'rless lying,

Those limbs where Grace its magic spread; Of death she tastes the leaden slumber,

While bleak winds whistle o'er her head,

EPIGRAM, FROM THE FRENCH.

" ALAS! I've been robbed." "Friend, I join in

your grief."

"All my verses are gone!" "How I pity the thief!"

R. A. D.

A SONG.

My slumbers were pleasant when last I reclin'd
On my pillow, and thought of my love:
Our hearts were in mutual endearment intwin'd,
And Gladness sat smiling above.

Our hands were united, and swiftly we flew,
My Eliza! o'er mountain and vale;

With the beams of the morning we brush'd off the dew,

And sang

with the breath of the gale.

On the wings of the wind we embark on the waves, And dance on the face of the deep;

Our vessel the billowy wilderness braves,

And music lulls Ocean asleep.

The transports that charm'd us, while deaf to the roar
Of the wind and the thundering stream,

Were alas! but the creatures of Fancy-no more
Than the shadowy sport of a dream!

W. EVANS.

ELEGY.

LAURA'S BIRTH-DAY.

STILL with the world and with myself at strife,
Where'er I pant beneath this load of life,
"Midst haunts of men or solitary groves,
Where'er forlorn this restless spirit roves;
Still shall this day, as rolls each year along,
To Laura hallow'd, claim th' impassion'd song.
Perhaps the hour that wafts to heav'n the pray'r
Warm, for her bliss, may steal me from my care;
One day, may Laura's friend (enough remain
For brooding mis'ry and her sullen train)
One day forbid th' unmanly tear to flow,
And feign that calm his breast can never know.
In sacred silence be my grief supprest;
Why wound the softness of my Laura's breast?
What tho' in vain long years of anguish roll,
And future pangs oppress my tortur'd soul;
Yet let them come-thy friend can still endure
Those wounds a word, a smile from thee can cure-
But should my Laura, chang'd by time or fate,
In cold reserve conceal her silent hate;
With force decisive may the blow descend,
And end at once her friendship and her friend!
Ah! turn my soul from the dark scene awhile;
One hour let Fancy wake and Nature smile;