FROM THE GREEK OF TYRTEUS.
chords when beauty claims the song, Or kingly grace, or limbs of giant mould; No grace of mine extols the honey'd tongue, The racer's swiftness, or the gleam of gold.
My theme's the youth who views with steady eyes
The bloodiest carnage, and the grin of death;
Mid thickest battle claims the victor's prize,
And man to man disputes the laurel wreath.
Blest by his country's praise, his parent's smile,
He views the waste of life, nor feels appal,
Firm at the post, and foremost in the file,
With dauntless breast he sees his comrade fall.
With sinewy arm he stems the wave of war,
O'er adverse hosts he scatters wild dismay; Reckless of life he guides his griding car,
Where danger frowns, amid the bloody fray.
And falls the youth ?-he falls, his country's joy,His father's pride,-who tells each honest wound, Points to the fissur'd buckler of his boy,
And smiles in tears, while all his praise resound.
His childrens' children, bending o'er his tomb,
Shall date their glories from his honour'd name; Thus, wrapt in earth, he scapes the vulgar doom, And lives for ever in the rolls of fame.
In Chiswick Church, on a Youth of Fifteen.
Ir in the morn of life each winning grace,
The converse sweet, the mind-illumin'd face,
The lively wit that charm'd with early art,
And mild affections streaming from the heart;
If these, lov'd youth, could check the hand of Fate,
Thy matchless worth had claim'd a longer date.
But thou art blest, while here we heave the figh;
Thy death is virtue wafted to the sky.
Yet still thy image fond affection keeps,
The sire remembers, and the mother weeps;
Still the friend grieves, who saw thy vernal bloom,
And here, sad task! inscribes it on thy tomb.
O BEST belov'd! could I but gain
The one dear boon that I implore;
I'd cease of Fortune to complain,
Nor would I ask kind Heaven for more.
I wish not realms my sway to own,
To bend and tremble at my frown;
For Care, too oft, lurks near the throne,
And lines with thorns the dazzling crown.
Let Empire break Ambition's rest;
Be far its troublous pomp from me;
I should, dear maid, be truly blest,
Were mine a tranquil cot and thee.
No splendid robes, no gems of pride,
No boundless wealth can I impart :
These toys to me has Fate denied;
But I can give a faithful heart.
Sweet maid! indeed, I would not grieve
Though I the live-long day should toil,
Might I at setting sun, receive
From thee, one tender, cheering smile.
And canst thou bid me then despair?
Ah no! to winds I fear consign:
If love and truth be worth thy care,
I sure shall one day call thee mine!
SEE where yon crag's imperious height
The funny highland crowns,
And, hideous as the brow of night,
Above the torrent frowns.
So scowls the chief whose will is law,
Regardless of our state;
While millions gaze with painful awe,
With fear allied to hate.
GAY child of Spring, the garden's queen,
Yon peach-tree charms the roving sight;
Its fragrant leaves, how richly green!
Its blossoms, how divinely bright!
So softly smiles the blooming bride,
By Love and conscious Virtue led
O'er her new mansion to preside,
And placid joys around her spread.
To strike the mind the Scenic Muse essays,
And levels her attacks a thousand ways,-
Suspence, surprise, sad dirges, thrilling airs,
Diction that glitters, Pageantry that glares ;-
These are the Muse's feather'd shafts she flings,
To tickle judgment with the arrow's wings;
But when the Voice of Nature prompts her art,
She points the barb, and penetrates the heart.
These truths, from heavenly nature, Shakspeare
knew ;
She spoke, he echoed; she design'd, he drew!
Born in her school, bright Genius, from the bowers
Of Fancy, wreath'd his cradle round with flowers:
Now, Nature's pupil, fled by Nature's doom,
Leaves taste to scatter laurel on his tomb.
Since, then, our Drama's sun can cheer us yet,
With beams of glory from his golden set,
May not a lowly bard still catch a ray,
To light his feeble steps through Nature's way?
|