Child of the Sun, why droops thy withering head, While high in Leo flames thy radiant Sire; With Egypt's glory is thy glory fled?

And with her genius quench'd thy native fire?

For, direr than her desert's burning wind, Gaul's furious legions sweep yon ravag'd vale; Death stalks before, grim Famine howls behind, And screams of horror load the tainted gale.

Nile's crimson'd waves with blood polluted roll, Her groves, her fanes, devouring fire consumes; But mark-slow rising near the distant pole, A sudden splendour all her shores illumes!

Fatal to Gaul-'tis Britain's rising star, That in the South the bright ascendant gains; Resplendent! as her Sirius shines from far, And with new fervors fires the Lybian plains.

A race, as Egypt's ancient warriors brave, For her insulted sons indignant glows,

Defies the tropic storm, the faithless wave, And hurls destruction on their haughty foes.

Exulting to his source old Nilus hears The deepening thunder of the British line; Again its lovely head the Lotos rears, Again the fields in rainbow glories shine.

Still wider, beauteous Plant! thy leaves extend, Nor dread the eye of an admiring Muse; In union with the rising song ascend,

Spread all thy charms, and all thy sweets diffuse.

Of that bold race beneath the Pleïads born, To chaunt thy praise a northern bard aspires,

Nor with more ardour, erst, at early dawn. The Theban harpists smote their votive lyres.

For oh! can climes th' excursive genius bound,
No-'mid Siberia bursts the heav'n-taught strain;
At either pole the Muses' songs resound,
And snows descend, and whirlwinds rage in vain!

Four thousand summers have thy pride survey'd,
Thy Pharoahs moulder in their marble tombs,
Oblivion's wing the pyramids shall shade,
But thy fair family unfading blooms!

Still 'mid these ruin'd towers, admired, revered, Wave high thy foliage, and secure expand;

These vast but crumbling piles by man were rear'd, But thou wert form'd by an Immortal hand!

With Natures' charms alone thy charms shall fade, With Being's self thy beauteous tribe declineOh! living, may thy flow'rs my temples shade, And decorate, when dead, my envied shrine!

EPIGRAM.

How well has Heaven proportion'd Sylla's whole:

A little body to a little soul!

R. A. D.

ODE

ON SIMPLICITY IN WORKS OF GENIUS.

BY MRS. LOVETT. •

SIMPLICITY, when thee of yore
Nature to bright-ey'd Genius bore,
Struck with thine artless grace,
She gaz'd with rapture on thy charms,
Then joyful clasp'd thee in her arms
The fairest of her race.

And still on thee her fav'rite child
She gracious mother kindly smil'd,
And freely taught her lore;
With thee in council fram'd her laws,
To thee unveil'd each hidden cause
Thro' all her boundless store.

Hence of her works the choicest part
Her master-piece!-the human heart
Acknowledges her sway-

Still to the inmost last retreat,
Where its unnumber'd windings meet,
'Tis thou must lead the way.

Dost thou assert thine ample pow'r,
To rule the sov'reign of the hour,
What can thy force withstand?
Or Mirth with all her frolic train,
Or Sympathy high wrought to pain,
Attend at thy command.

For as the time-coeval rock,
From God's vicegerent felt the shock
That freed the rushing tide;
So the firm breast to thee gives way,
And tears thy instant touch obey,
From springs 'till then untry'd.

But dost thou shift the tragic scene,
And wear thy laughter-loving mien,
Proud of thy varying skill;
Thy ready jest, thine artless tale,
O'er dim-ey'd Sadness soon prevail,
And prove thine influence still.

Alike by each fond parent grac'd,
Thou happy child! the realms of taste
Wert destin'd to command;

Thy Sire, to bless thy natal hour,
Gave that wide empire to the pow'r
Of thy disposing hand.

When early Greece thy sway confest,
Th' exulting arts around thee prest,
Attendant on thy reign;

Fair Poësy led on the band, Sculpture and Painting hand in hand,

With Music join'd the train.

Safe 'midst wide raging War's alarms,
Not Persia's liost, a world in arms,
Could shake thine Attic throne,
From civil Discord's madness came
The blow, for to the Grecian name
Would Grecians yield alone.

This Macedonian Philip knew,
And wide his dazzling treasures threw
Fair Virtue to mislead;
Like Atalanta, in her course,
Insidious Gold, with magic force,
Arrests her conqu❜ring speed.

In vain did Freedom's matchless son
(For Freedom's cause, and thine are one)
Her injur'd rights maintain;

For though her thunders arm'd his tongue,
Tho' on his lips thine accents hung,
She falls, and ends her reign.

Torn from thy native place of rest,
What shores receiv'd thee, hapless guest!
Doom'd never to return;

Save when thou didst at parting trace
Back thy sad footsteps to embrace
Thy Homer's hallow'd urn.

'Twas first upon the Latian coast

(Of Rome, as late of Greece the boast,) Thou didst resume thy state;

The frighted Arts soon met thee there,
And soon did Freedom's self appear
Conspanion of thy fate.

* Demosthenes.