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That helpless pants beneath his horrid paws,
The blood o'erflowing, laves his greedy jaws:
So keen Mezentius rushes on each foe;
Unhappy Acron sinks beneath his blow,
Mad in the pangs of death, he spurns the ground,
The blood distains the broken spear around:
Then fled Orodes shameful from the fight;
The victor scorn'd th' advantage of his flight;
But fir'd with rage, through cleaving ranks he ran,
And face to face oppos'd, and man to man:
Not guileful from behind his spear to throw
A wound unseen, but strikes an adverse blow.
Then with his foot his dying foe he press'd,
Lean'd on his lance, and thus his friends address'd:
Lo! where Orodes gasps upon the sand;
His death was due to this victorious hand,
Large portion of the war!" Exulting cries
Ascend amain, and ring along the skies.
To whom the vanquish'd, with imperfect sound,
All weak, and faint, and dying of the wound:
"Nor long my ghost shall unreveng'd repine,
Nor long the triumph of my fall be thine;
Thee, equal fates, insulting man, remain;
Thee, death yet waits, and this the fatal plain."
Him, as he roll'd in death, Mezentius spied,
He smil'd severe, and thus contemptuous cried:
"Die thou the first; as he thinks fit, for me,
The sire of Heav'n and Earth, let Jove decree."
He said: and pull'd the weapon from the wound;
The purple life ebb'd out upon the ground:
Death's clay-cold hand shut up the sinking light,
And o'er his closing eyes drew the dark mist of night.
By Cædicus' great arm Alcathous fell;
Sacrator sent Hydaspes down to Hell:
Parthenius dies, by Rapo slain in fight;
And Orses vast, of more than mortal might.
Next sunk two warriors, Clonius the divine,
And Ericetes of Lycaon's line;

The issue of the god, their deaths renown'd,
Whose forked trident rules the deep profound.
His courser, unobedient to the rein,
Great Ericetes tumbled to the plain.
Prone as he lay, swift fled the thirsty dart,
Aud found the mortal passage to his heart.
Then lights the victor from his lofty steed,
And, foot to foot engag'd, made Clonius bleed.
Then Lycian Agis, boastful of his might,
Provok'd the bravest foe to single fight;
Him boldly Tuscan Valerus assail'd,
And in the virtues of his sire prevail'd.
By Salius' arm, the swift Antronius bled;
Nealces' javelin struck the victor dead;
Nealces, skill'd the sounding dart to throw,
And wing the treacherous arrow to the foe.
Mars, raging god, and stern! the war confounds;
Equals the victor's shouts, and dying sounds.
Encountering various on the imbattled field,
Now fierce they rush, now fierce retreating, yield.
With equal rage, each adverse battle glows,
Nor flight is known to these, nor known to those.
Tisiphone enjoys the direful sight,

Pale, furious, fell! and storms amidst the fight.
The gods, from Jove's immortal dome, survey
Each army toiling, through the dreadful day;
With tender pity touch'd, lament the pain
That human life is destin'd to sustain.
On either side, two deities are seen;
Jove's awful consort, and soft beauty's queen:
The wife of Jove the conqueror's palm implores,
Soft beauty's queen her Trojans' loss deplores.

Again his javelin huge Mezentius wields;
Again tumultuous he invades the fields:
Large as Orion, when the giant stalks,
A bulk immense! through Nereus' midmost walks;-
Secure he cleaves his way; the billows braves,
His sinewy shoulders tow'r above the waves;
Bearing an ash, increas'd in strength with years,
That huge upon the mountain's height appears;
He strides along, each step the earth divides;
In clouds obscure his lofty head resides:
In stature huge, amidst the war's alarms,
Such shone the tyrant in gigantic arms.
Him, as exulting in the ranks he stood,
At distance seen, and rioting in blood,
Æneas hastes to meet; in all his might
He stands collected, and awaits the fight:
First measuring, as he stood in act to throw,
With nice survey, the distance of his foe: [might;
"This arm, this spear," he cry'd, "assert my
These are my gods, and these assist in fight:
His armour, from the boastful robber won,
Shall tow'r a trophy to my conquering son."
He said; and flings the dart with dreadful force;
The dart drove on unerring from the course;
It reach'd the shield, the shield the blow repell'd:
Nor fell the javelin guiltless on the field;
But, piercing 'twixt the side and bowels, tore
The fam'd Authores, and deep drank the gore:
He, in his lusty years, from Argos sent,
With fam'd Alcides, on his labours went:
Tir'd with his toils, a length of woes o'erpast,
In the Evandrian realm he fix'd at last:
Call'd back again to war, where glory calls,
Unhappy, by a death unmeant, he falls:
To Heaven his mournful eyes the dying throws;
In his last thoughts his native Argos rose.
Straight then, his beaming lance the Trojan threw;
Swift hissing on the wind the weapon flew:
The plates of threefold brass were forc'd to yield;
And three bulls' hides that bound the solid shield:
Deep in his lower groin, an arm so strong,
Drove the sharp point, but brought not death along,
Then joyful as the Trojan hero spied
The spouting blood pour down his wounded side,
Like lightning, from his thigh his sword he drew,
And furious on th' astonish'd warrior flew.

As Lausus saw, full sore he heav'd the sigh;
The ready tear stood trembling in his eye:
His father's danger touch'd the youthful chief;
With pious haste he ran to his relief.
Nor shalt thou sink unnoted to the tomb,
Unsung thy noble deed, and early doom:
If future times to such a deed will give
Their faith, to future times thy name shall live.
Disabled, trembling for a death so near,
The father slow-receding, drags the spear:
Just in that moment, as suspended high
The flaming sword shone adverse to the sky,
The daring youth rush'd in, and fronts the foe,
And from his father turus th' impending blow.
His friends with joyful shouts reply around;
Through all their echoes all the hills resound;
As wondering they beheld the wounded sire,
Protected by the son, from fight retire,
A dark'ning flight of singing shafts annoy,
From every quarter pour'd, the prince of Troy:
He stands against the fury of the field,
And rages, cover'd with his mighty shield.
And as when stormy winds encountering loud,
Burst with rude violence the bellowing cloud,

Precipitate to earth, the tempest pours
The vexing hailstones thick in sounding showers:
The delug'd plains then every ploughman flies,
And every hind and traveller shelter'd lies;
Or, where the rock high overarch'd impends,
Or, where the river's shelving bank defends;
That, powerful o'er the storm, when bright the ray
Shines forth, they each may exercise the day.
Loud sounds the gather'd storm; o'er all the field
The cloud of war pours thundering on his shield.
Yet still be tried with friendly care to save
Th'

unhappy youth, unfortunately brave.
"Ah! whither dost thou urge thy fatal course,
In daring deeds! unequal to thy force?
Too pious in thy love, thy love betrays;
Nor such the vigour crowns thy youthful days."
Not thus advis'd, the youth still fronts the foe
Exulting, and provokes the lingering blow:
For now, his martial bosom all on fire,
The Trojan leader's tide of rage swell'd higher;
For now, the sisters view'd the fatal strife,
And wound up the last threads of Lausus' life:
Deep plung'd the shining falchion in his breast,
Pierc'd his thin armour, and embroider'd vest,
That, rich in ductile gold, his mother wove
With her own hands, the witness of her love.
His breast was fill'd with blood; then, sad and slow
Through air resolv'd, the spirit fled below:
As ghastly pale, the chief the dying spied,
His hands he stretch'd to Heav'n, and pitying sigh'd;
His sire Anchises rose an image dear
Sad in his soul, and forc'd the tender tear.
"What praise, O youth! unhappy in thy fate,
What can Æneas yield to worth so great?
Worth, that distinguish'd in thy deed appears,
Ripe in thy youth, and early in thy years:
Thy arms, once pleasing objects of thy care,
Inviolate from hostile spoil I spare;
Thy breathless body on thy friends bestow,
To mitigate hy pensive spirit's woe,
If aught below the separate soul can move,
Solicitous of what is done above;

(Yet in the grave, perhaps, from every care
Releas'd, nor knowledge, nor device is there ;)
That, gather'd to thy sires, thy friends may mourn
Thy hapless fall, and dust to dust return:
This be thy solace in the world below,
'Twas I, the great Æneas, struck the blow."
He said; and beck'ning, chides his friends' delay;
And pious to assist, directs the way,
To rear him from the ground, with friendly care,
Dishonour'd foul with blood his comely hair.

The wretched father now, by Tyber shore
Wash'd from his streaming thigh the crimson gore:
Pain'd with his wound, and weary from the fight,
A tree's broad trunk supports his drooping weight:
A bough his helmet beaming far sustains:
His heavier armour rest along the plains.
Panting, and sick, his body downward bends,
And to his breast his length of beard descends:
He leans his careful head upon his hand;
Around him wait a melancholy band:
Much of his Lausus asks, and many sent
To warn him back, a father's kind intent:
How vainly sent! for, breathless, from the field
They bear the youth, extended on his shield;
Loud wailing mourn'd him slain in early bloom,
Mighty, and by a mighty wound o'ercome.

Far off the sounds of woe the father hears; He trembles in the foresight of his fears:

With dust the hoary honours of his head
Sad he deforms, and cleaves into the dead:
Then both his hands to Heav'n aloft he spread;
And thus, in fulness of his sorrows, said :-
"Could then this lust of life so warp my mind,
That I could think of leaving thee behind
Whom I begot, unhappy in my stead
To meet the warrior, and for me to bleed?
Now fate severe has struck too deep a blow,
Now first I feel a wretched exile's woe.
And is it thus I draw this wretched breath,
Sav'd by thy wound, and living by thy death?
I too, my son, with horrid guilt profan'd
Thy sacred virtues, and their lustre stain'd:
Outcast, abandon'd by the care of Heav'n,
From empire, and paternal sceptres driv'n,
My people's hatred, and insulting scorn,
The merit of my crimes I've justly borne:
To thousand deaths this wicked soul could give,
Since now 'tis crime enough that I can live,
Can yet sustain the light, and human race,
Wretch'd as I am :-but short shall be the space."
He said; and as he said, he rear'd from ground
His fainting limbs, yet staggering from the wound:
But whole and undiminish'd still remains
His strength of soul, unbroke with toil and pains.
He calls his steed, successful from each fight,.
With whom he march'd, his glory and delight;
With words like these his conscious steed address'd,
That mourn'd, as with his master's ills oppress'd:
"Rhœbus, we long have liv'd in arins combin'd,
(If long the frail possessions of mankind ;)
This day thou shalt bring back, to crown our toils,
The Trojan hero's head, and glittering spoils
Torn from the bloody man! with me shall take
A dear revenge, for murder'd Lausus' sake:
If strength shall fail to ope the destin'd way,
Together fall, and press the Latian clay;
For after me I trust thou wilt disdain
A Trojan leader, and an alien rein."
He said: the steed receives his wonted weight,
The tyrant arm'd, and furious for the fight:
His blazing helmet, formidably grac'd
With nodding horse-hair, brightening o'er the crest:
With deathful javelins next he fills his hands;
And spurs his steed, and seeks the fighting bands:
Grief mix'd with madness, shame of former flight,
And love by rage inflam'd to desperate height,
And conscious knowledge of his valour, wrought
Fierce in his breast, and boil'd in every thought.
He calls Æneas thrice: Æneas heard
The welcome sound; and thus his prayer preferr'd:
"May Jove, supreme of gods, who rules on high!
And he, to whom 'tis giv'n to gild the sky,
Far-shooting king! inspire thee to draw near
Swift to thy fate, and grant thee to my spear."
But he:-"My Lausus ravish'd from my sight,
Me, with vain words, O! cruel, would'st affright;
With age, with watchings, and with labours worn,
Death is below my fear, and God I scorn!
I come resolv'd to die; but, ere I go,
Receive this dart, the present of a foe."
He said: the javelin hiss'd along the skies;
Another after, and another flies;
Thick, and incessant, as he rides the field;
Still all the storm sustains the golden shield
Firm, as Æneas stood: thrice rode he round,
Urging his darts, the compass of the ground:
Thrice wheel'd Æneas; th ice his buckler bears

About, a brazen wood of rising spears:

Press'd in unrighteous fight, with just disdain
To wrench so many darts, and wrench in vain,
Much pondering in his mind, the chief revolv'd
Each rising thought; at last he springs resolv'd;
Full at the warrior steed the hostile wood
He threw, that pierc'd his brain and drank the blood.
Stung with the pain, the steed up-rear'd on high
His sounding hoofs, and lash'd the yielding sky;
Prone fell the warrior from his lofty height,
His shoulders broad receiv'd the courser's weight.
From host to host the mingling shouts rebound,
Deep echoing all in fire the heav'ns resound;
Unsheath'd bis flaming blade, Æneas flies,
And thus address'd the warrior as he lies:
"Say, where is now Mezentius great and bold,
That haughty spirit, fierce and uncontrol'd?"
To whom the Tuscan, with recover'd breath,
As faint he view'd the skies, recall'd from death;
"Dost thou the stroke, insulting man! delay?
Haste! let thy vengeance take its destin'd way:
Death never can disgrace the warrior's fame
Who dies in fight; nor conquest was my aim:
Slain, savage! by thy hand in glorious strife,
Not so my Lausus bargain'd for my life:
Depriv'd of him, sole object of my love,
I seek to die;-for joy is none above.
Yet, piteous of my fate, this grace allow,
If pity to the vanquish'd foe be due,
Suffer my friends my gather'd bones to burn,
And decent lay me in the funeral urn:
Full well I know my people's hate, decreed
Against the living, will pursue the dead;
My breathless body from their fury save,
And grant my son the partner of my grave."
He said, and steadfast eyed the victor foe;
Then gave his breast undaunted to the blow.
The rushing blood distain'd his arms around;
The soul indignant sought the shades profound.

THE CORYCIAN SWAIN.

FROM GEORGICS, IV.-LINE 116.

BUT, were I not, before the favouring gale,
Making to port, and crowding all my sail,
Perhaps I might the garden's glories sing,
The double roses of the Pæstan spring;
How endive drinks the rill, and how are seen
Moist banks with celery for ever green;
How, twisted in the matted herbage, lies
The bellying cucumber's enormous size;
What flowers Narcissus late, how Nature weaves
The yielding texture of acanthus' leaves:
Of ivy pale the culture next explore,

And whence the lover-myrtle courts the shore.
For I remember (where Galesus yields
His humid moisture to the yellow fields,
And high Oebalia's tow'rs o'erlook the plain,)
I knew in youth an old Corycian swain;
A few and barren acres were his share,
Left and abandon'd to the good man's care;
Nor these indulg'd the grassy lawn, to feed
The fattening bullock, nor the bounding steed,
Nor gave to cattle browze, nor food to kine,
Bacchus averse refus'd the mantling vine.
What happy nature to his lands denied,
An honest, painful industry supplied;
For, trusting pot-herbs to his bushy ground,
For bees, fair candid lilies flourish'd round,

Vervain for health, for bread he poppies plants,
With these he satisfied all nature's wants,
And late returning home from wholesome toil,
Enjoy'd the frugal bounty of the soil.
His mind was royal in a low estate,
Aud dignified the meanness of his fate.
He first in Spring was seen to crop the rose,
In Autumn first t' unload the bending boughs;
For every bud the early year bestow'd,
A reddening apple on the branches glow'd.
Ev'n in the midst of Winter's rigid reign,
When snow and frost had whiten'd o'er the plain,
When cold had split the rocks, and stript the woods,
And shackled up the mighty running floods,
He then, anticipating Summer's hopes,
The tendrils of the soft acanthus crops;
His industry awak'd the lazy Spring,
And hasten'd on the Zephyr's loitering wing.
For this with pregnant bees he chief was known
T' abound: the balmy harvest all his own.
Successive swarms reward his faithful toil;
None press'd from richer combs the liquid spoil.
He crown'd his rural orchard's plain design,
With flowering lime-trees, and a wealth of pine.
He knew in graceful order to dispose
Large-bodied elms, transplanted into rows.
Hard pear-trees flourish'd near his rustic dome,
And thorns already purple with the plum;
Broad planes arose to form an ample bow'r,
Where mirth's gay sons refresh'd the sultry hour.
But I this grateful subject must discard,
The pleasing labour of some future bard.

THE

TWENTIETH ODE OF ANACREON. FAIR Niobe, old times survey'd, In Phrygian hills, a marble maid. Chang'd Pandion! to the swallow's hue, On swallow's wings thy daughter flew. But I a looking-glass would be, That thou might'st see thyself in me. No; I would be a morning gown, That so my dear might ine put on. But I a silver stream would flow, To wash thy skin, as pure as snow. I would myself in ointment pour, To bathe thee with the fragrant show'r. But I would be thy tucker made, Thy lovely swelling bosom's shade. I would, a diamond necklace, deck

The comely rising of thy neck.

I would thy slender feet enclose,
To tread on me transform'd to shoes.

THE

TWENTY-FIRST ODE OF ANACREON. FILL with Bacchus' blessings fraught, Ye virgins, fill a mighty draught: Long since dried up by heat, I faint, I scarcely breathe, and feverish pant. O! with these fresher flowers, renew The fading garland on my brow, For oh! my forehead's raging heat Has rifled all their graces sweet;

The rage of thirst I yet can quell,

The rage of beat I can repel,

But, love! thy heat which burns my soul,

By good men honour'd, by the bad approv'd,
And lov'd the Muses, by the Muses lov'd;
Hail! and farewell, who bore the gentlest mind,

What draughts can quench? what shades can cool? For thou indeed hast been of human kind.”

THE

TWENTY-SECOND ODE OF ANACREON.

COME, sit beneath this shade with me,
My lovely maid, how fair the tree!
Its tender branches wide prevail,
Obedient to each breathing gale;
Summer's loom industrious weaves
In mazy veins the silken leaves,
Soft as the milky veins I view,
O'er thy fair breast meandering blue;
Hard by a fount with murmuring noise
Runs a sweet persuasive voice;-
What lover, say, my lovely maid,
So foolish as to pass this shade?

ON LORD BARGENY.

Go hence instructed from this early urn,
Wise as you weep, and better as you mourn;
This urn, where titles, fortune, youth repose,
How vain the fleeting good that life bestows!
Learn, age, when now it can no more supply,
To quit the burden, and consent to die;
Secure, the truly virtuous never tell
How long the part was acted, but how well:
Youth, stand convicted of each foolish claim,
Fach daring wish of lengthen'd life and fame;
Thy life a moment, and thy fame a breath,
The natural end, oblivion and death;
Hear then this solemn truth, obey its call,
Submiss adore, for this is mankind's all.

EPITAPHS.

ON LORD NEWHALL.

To fame let flattery the proud column raise,
And guilty greatness load with venal praise,
This monument, for nobler use design'd,
Speaks to the heart, and rises for mankind;
Whose moral strain, if rightly understood,
Invites thee to be humble, wise, and good.
Learn here, of life, life's every sacred end;
Hence form the father, husband, judge, and friend:
Here wealth and greatness found no partial grace,
The poor look'd fearless in th' oppressor's face;
One plain good meaning through his conduct ran,
And if he err'd, alas! he err'd as man.
If then, unconscious of so fair a fame,
Thou read'st without the wish to be the same,
Though proud of titles, or of boundless store,
By blood ignoble, and by wealth made poor,
Yet read; some vice perhaps thou may'st resign,
Be ev'n that momentary virtue thine,
Heav'n in thy breast here work its first essay,
Think on this man, and pass unblam'd one day.

ON LORD BINNING.

BENEATH this sacred marble ever sleeps,
For whom a father, mother, consort weeps;
Whom brothers', sisters', pious griefs pursue,
And childrens' tears with virtuous drops bedewy
The Loves and Graces grieving round appear,
Ev'n Mirth herself becomes a mourner here;
The stranger who directs his steps this way
Shall witness to thy worth, and wondering say,-
Thy life, though short, can we unhappy call?
Sure thine was blest, for it was social ail:
O may no hostile hand this place invade,
For ever sacred to thy gentle shade!
Who knew in all life's offices to please,
Join'd taste to virtue, and to virtue ease;
With riches blest, did not the poor disdain,
Was knowing, humble, friendly, great, humane;

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ON SIR JAMES SUTTIE.

THIS unambitious stone preserves a name
To friendship sanctified, untouch'd by fame;
A son this rais'd, by holy duty fir'd,
These sung a friend, by friendly zeal inspir'd.
No venal falsehood stain'd the filial tear;
Unbought, unask'd, the friendly praise sincere;
Both for a good man weep, without offence,
Who led his days in ease and innocence.
His tear rose honest; honest rose his smile;
His heart no falsehood knew, his tongue no guile;
A simple mind with plain just notions fraught,
Nor warp'd by wit, nor by proud science taught;
Nature's plain light still, rightly understood,
That never hesitates the fair and good-
Who view'd self-balanc'd, from his calm retreat,
The storms that vex the busy and the great,
Unmingling in the scene, whate'er befel
Pitied his suffering kind, and wish'd them well;
Careless if monarchs frown'd, or statesmen smil'd,
His purer joy, his friend, his wife, or child;
Constant to act the hospitable part,
Love in his look, and welcome in his heart;
Such unpriz'd blessings did his life employ,
The social moment, the domestic joy,
A joy beneficent, warm, cordial, kind,
That leaves no doubt, no grudge, no sting behind:
The heart-born rapture that from virtue springs,
The poor man's portion God withheld from kings.
This life at decent time was bid to cease,
Finish'd among his weeping friends in peace:
Go, traveller, wish his shade eternal rest,
Go, be the same, for this is to be blest.

ON MR. BAILLIE, OF JERVISWOOD. THE pious parent rais'd this hallow'd place A monument for them, and for their race: Descendants! be it your successive cares, That no degenerate dust e'er mix with their's.

ON MR. BASIL HAMILTON.

THIS verse, O gentle Hamilton! be thine,
Each softer grace, below thy darling shrine.
Nature to thee did her best gifts impart,
The mildest manners, and the warmest heart;
Honour erected in thy breast his throne,
And kind humanity was all thy own.

ON MRS. COLQUHOUN, OF LUSS.

UNBLAM'D, O sacred shrine! let me draw near, A sister's ashes claim a brother's tear; No semblant arts this copious spring supply, 'Tis Nature's drops, that swell in Friendship's eye: O'er this sad tomb, see kneeling brothers bend, Who wail a sister, that excell'd a friend; A child like this each parent's wish engage, Grace of his youth, and solace of his age: Hence the chaste virgin learn each pious art Who sighs sincere to bless a virtuous heart, The faithful youth, when Heaven the choice inspires, Such hope the partner of his kind desires. Oh, early lost! yet early all fulfill'd Each tender office of wife, sister, child; All these in early youth thou hadst obtain'd; The fair maternal pattern yet remain'd, Heav'n sought not that-else Heav'n had bid to To thine succeeds now Providence's careAmidst the pomp that to the dead we give To sooth the vanity of those that live, Receive thy destin'd place, a hallow'd grave, 'Tis all we can bestow, or thou can'st crave; Be these the honours that embalm thy name, The matron's praise, woman's best silent fame! Such, to remembrance dear, thy worth be found, When queens and flatterers sleep forgot around, Till awful sounds shall break the solemn rest; Then wake amongst the blest for ever blest. Meanwhile upon this stone thy name shall live, Sure Heaven will let this pious verse survive.

[spare;

What virtues might have grae'd her fuller day!
"Butah! the charm just shown and snatch'daway.”
Friendship, Love, Nature, all reclaim in vain;
Heav'n, when it wills, resumes its gifts again.

ON MR. CUNNINGHAM, OF CRAIGENDS.

A

SON, a wife, bad the plain marble rise; Beneath the sacred shade a good man lies. In Britain's senate long unblam'd he sate, And anxious trembled for her doubtful fate: Above all giddy hopes, all selfish ends, His country was his family and friends. Children! weep not, thus cruelly bereft ; The fair example of his life is left; Another far more lasting, safe estate Than e'er descended from the rich and great Their's fall to time or fortune soon a prey; Or, the poor gift of kings, kings snatch away: Your blest succession never can be less, Still as you imitate, you still possess.

ON MISS SETON,

INTERRED IN THE CHAPEL OF SETON-HOUSE?

In these once hallow'd walls' neglected shade,
Sacred to piety and to the dead,

Where the long line of Seton's race repose,
Whose tombs to wisdom, or to valour rose;
Though now a thankless age, to slavery prone,
Past fame despising, careless of its own,
Records no more; each public virtue fled,
Who wisely counsell'd, or who bravely bled:
Though here the warrior-shield is hung no more,
But every violated trophy tore,

[lot,
Heav'n's praise, man's honour, share one shameful
God and his image both alike forgot:
To this sweet maid a kindred place is due,
Her earth shall consecrate these walls anew,
The Muse, that listens to desert alone,
Snatches from fate, and seals thee for her own.

ON MRS. KEITH.

WHATE'ER all-giving Nature could impart,
Whate'er or charm'd the eye, or warm'd the heart;
Beauty, by candid virtue still approv'd,
Virtue, by beauty render'd most belov'd;
Whate'er kind friendship, or endearing truth,
For blest old age had treasur'd up in youth;
What blest old age, in its last calm adieu,
Might with applause and conscious joy review,
Reposes here, to wake in endless bliss,
Too early ravish'd from a world like this!
Where fair examples strike, but not inspire.
To imitate the virtues all admire;
Yet listen, virgins! to this saving strain,
If she has liv'd-let her not die in vain!

COULD this fair marble to the world impart
Half of the woes that rend a husband's heart,
Could it be taught to look with nature's eye,
Like friendship could it breathe the tender sigh,
With each dear rapture bid the bosom glow
Love e'er could taste, or tenderness bestow;
Then might it tow'r unblam'd amid the skies,
And not to vanity, but virtue rise:

Its noblest pomp the humble eye endure,
And pride when most it swell'd, here find a cure.
Cease then-nor at the Sovereign will repine;'
It gives, we bless; it snatches, we resign:
To earth what came from earth returns again,
Heav'n fram'd th' immortal part above to reign.

ON MRS. HEPBURN.

STAY, passenger; this stone demands thy tear;
Here rest the hopes of many a tender year:
Our sorrow now so late our joy and praise!
Lost in the mild Aurora of her days.

DOES great and splendid villany allure?
Go search in W's trial for a cure.

Blest with enough, would'st thou increase it still?
Examine Ch's life, and R-d's will.

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