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And when in death my peaceful ashes lie, If e'er some tongue congenial speaks my name, Friendship shall never blush to breathe a sigh, And great ones envy such an honest fame.'

Cooper.

THE CHELSEA PENSIONER.

AN ELEGY.

BENEATH that mouldering turret's gloomy shade, Where yonder pines their wide-spread branches A gallant veteran rests his weary head,

[wave, And with him sleep his sorrows in the grave. No breathing art adorns the sacred ground, Points the tall spire, or bids the trophy rise, A scanty turf, with twisted osier bound,

Scarce marks the spot where buried honour lies.
Ah, what avails him, that in youth's gay prime,
Each unremitting toil of war he bore,
Each sickly change of every varying clime,
From Europe's strand, to Asia's sultry shore?
How short the glory of the poor man's deeds!
How slight the fame he fondly thinks his own!
In vain he triumphs, or in vain he bleeds,
Alike unwept, unpitied, and unknown.

Yet though no plumed steeds, no sable car,
Call forth the hireling's mercenary tear,
No blazon'd banners streaming from afar

Flaunt their vain honours o'er thine humble bier;

Yet on the margin of the path-worn green,
Near the lov'd spot where thy cold relics rest,
Fair Virtue's angel-form shall oft be seen

To bid the turf lie lightly on thy breast.

The thoughtless many, the misjudging crowd,
Whose glance scarce beams beyond the present
May idolize the follies of the proud,
[hour,
Or bend submissive at the shrine of pow'r;

But with the chosen band, the manly few,
Whose sober approbation far outweighs,
In reason's scale, the clamorous fickle crew,
And the vain tumult of their fleeting praise-

-(Scorning the pageantry of pomp, and place)
There hearts shall pay the tributary sigh
To that poor virtue, from whose humble base
Tow'r'd the proud columns that insult the sky.

Though she, whose beauty's all-enchanting pow'r
Could every sterner care of life beguile, [hour,
Whose charm could sooth reflection's sickening
Or bid the cheerless brow of sorrow smile;

Far from these dreary scenes for ever torn,

No more shall animate each rapturous strain, Now sweetly smiling, now with looks of scorn, Hiding her heart, that sunk at giving pain :

Yet when emerging from the giddy throng,
When every eye but mine is seal'd in rest,
Pensive I walk these time-mark'd walls among,
And kiss the hallow'd ground her footsteps
press'd;

Here while the scenes of former bliss arise, [flow)
(Sad source from whence these tears of anguish
Far from the sneering fool, or censuring wise,
I nurse in solitude the seeds of wo

-Deaf to the voice of pleasure, or of fame,
Yet not from pity's milder influence free,
E'en then, not unregardful of thy name,

This aching breast shall heave one sigh for thee.

Sir J. H. Moore.

THE DEBTOR.

AN ELEGY.

CHILDREN of Affluence, hear a poor man's pray'r! O haste and free me from this dungeon's gloom; Let not the hand of comfortless despair

Sink my gray hairs with sorrow to the tomb!

Unus'd Compassion's tribute to demand,

With clamorous din wake Charity's dull ear, Wring the slow aid from Pity's loitering hand, Weave the feign'd tale, or drop the ready tear.

Far different thoughts employ'd my early hours, To view of bliss, to scenes of affluence born; The hand of pleasure strew'd my path with flow'rs, And every blessing hail'd my youthful morn.

But ah, how quick the change !-the morning gleam,

That cheer'd my fancy with her magic ray,,
Fled like the gairish pageant of a dream,
And sorrow clos'd the evening of my day.

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Such is the lot of human bliss below!

Fond hope awhile the trembling flow'ret rears ; Till unforeseen descends the blight of wo,

And withers in an hour the pride of years.

In evil hour, to specious wiles a prey,

I trusted :-(who from faults is always free?) And the short progress of one fatal day

Was all the space 'twixt wealth and poverty. Where could I seek for comfort, or for aid ? To whom the ruins of my state commend? Left to myself, abandon'd, and betray'd,

Too late I found the wretched have no friend !

E'en he amid the rest, the favour'd youth,
Whose vows had met the tenderest warm return,
Forgot his oaths of constancy and truth,
And left my child in solitude to mourn.

Pity in vain stretch'd forth her feeble hand
To guard the sacred wreaths that Hymen wove,
While pale-eyed Avarice, from his sordid stand,
Scowl'd o'er the ruins of neglected love.

Though deeply hurt, yet sway'd by decent pride,
She hush'd her sorrows with becoming art,
And faintly strove with sickly smiles to hide
The canker-worm that prey'd upon her heart.
Nor blam'd his cruelty-nor wish'd to hate
Whom once she lov'd--but pitied, and forgave:
Then unrepining yielded to her fate,

And sunk in silent anguish to the grave.

Children of Affluence, hear a poor man's prayer! O haste and free me from this dungeon's gloom! Let not the band of comfortless despair

Sink my gray hairs with sorrow to the tomb! Sir J. H. Moore.

THE LEGACY.

My dearest love! when thou and I must part,
And th' icy hand of Death shall seize that heart
Which is all thine; without some spacious will
I'll leave no blanks for legacies to fill:
"Tis my ambition to die one of those
Who but himself hath nothing to dispose.
And since that is already thine, what need
I to regive it by some newer deed?
Yet take it once again, free circumstance
Does oft the value of mean things advance:
Who thus repeats what he bequeath'd before,
Proclaims his bounty richer than his store.
But let me not upon my love bestow

What is not worth the giving. I do owe
Somewhat to dust: my body's pamper'd care
Hungry corruption and the worm will share.
That mould'ring relic which in earth must lie
Would prove a gift of horror to thine eye.
With this cast rag of my mortality
Let all my faults and errors buried be.
And as my cere-cloth rots, so may kind fate
Those worst acts of my life incinerate.
He shall in story fill a glorious room

Whose ashes and whose sins sleep in one tomb.
If now to my cold hearse thou deign to bring
Some melting sighs, as thy last offering,

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