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WRITTEN IN THE YEAR

,

WHEN THE RIGHTS OF

SEPULTURE WERE SO FREQUENTLY VIOLATED.

SAY, gentle Sleep! that lov'st the gloom of night,
Parent of dreams! thou great magician! say,
Whence my late vision thus endures the light,
Thus haunts my fancy through the glare of day.
The silent moon had scal'd the vaulted skies,
And anxious Care resign'd my limbs to rest;
A sudden lustre struck my wondering eyes,
And Silvia stood before my couch confess'd.
Ah! not the nymph so blooming and so gay,
That led the dance beneath the festive shade,
But she that, in the morning of her day,

Entomb'd beneath the grass-green sod was laid.
No more her eyes their wonted radiance cast,
No more her breast inspir'd the lover's flame;
No more her cheek the Pæstan rose surpass'd,
Yet seem'd her lip's ethereal smile the same.
Nor such her hair as deck'd her living face,
Nor such her voice as charm'd the listening crowd;
Nor such her dress as heighten'd every grace;
Alas! all vanish'd for the mournful shroud.

Yet seem'd her lip's ethereal charm the same;
That dear distinction every doubt remov'd;
Perish the lover whose imperfect flame

Forgets one feature of the nymph he lov'd!
'Damon,' she said, ' mine hour allotted flies;
Oh! do not waste it with a fruitless tear :
Though griev'd to see thy Silvia's pale disguise,
Suspend thy sorrow, and attentive hear.

'So may thy muse with virtuous fame be bless'd!

So be thy love with mutual love repaid! So may thy bones in sacred silence rest!

Fast by the relics of some happier maid! • Thou know'st how, lingering on a distant shore, Disease invidious nipt my flowery prime; And, oh! what pangs my tender bosom tore,

To think I ne'er must view my native clime! No friend was near to raise my drooping head, No dear companion wept to see me die; "Lodge me within my native soil;" I said,

"There my fond parents' honour'd relics lie. 66 Though now debar'd of each domestic tear, Unknown, forgot, I meet the fatal blow; There many a friend shall grace my woful bier, And many a sigh shall rise and tear shall flow." 'I spoke, nor Fate forebore his trembling spoil; Some venal mourner lent his careless aid, And soon they bore me to my native soil,

Where my fond parents' dear remains were laid. 'Twas then the youths from every plain and grove Adorn'd with mournful verse thy Silvia's bier; "Twas then the nymphs their votive garlands wove, And strew'd the fragrance of the youthful year. But why, alas! the tender scene display? Could Damon's foot the pious path decline? Ah, no! 'twas Damon first attun'd his lay, And sure no sonnet was so dear as thine. • Thus was I bosom'd in the peaceful grave, My placid ghost no longer wept its doom; When savage robbers every sanction brave,

And with outrageous guilt defraud the tomb.

'Shall my poor corse, from hostile realms convey'd, Lose the cheap portion of my native sands? Or, in my kindred's dear embraces laid;

Mourn the vile ravage of barbarian hands?

Say, would thy breast no deathlike torture feel, To see my limbs the felon's gripe obey? To see them gash'd beneath the daring steel? To crowds a spectre, and to dogs a prey? 'If Pean's sons these horrid rites require, If Health's fair science be by these refin'd; Let guilty convicts for their use expire,

And let their breathless corse avail mankind. Yet hard it seems when Guilt's last fine is paid, To see the victim's corse denied repose; Now, more severe, the poor offenceless maid Dreads the dire outrage of inhuman foes. Where is the faith of ancient pagans fled? Where the fond care the wandering manes claim? Nature, instinctive cries, "Protect the dead; And sacred be their ashes and their fame!" 'Arise, dear youth! ev'n now the danger calls; Ev'n now the villain snuffs his wonted prey : See! see! I lead thee to yon sacred walls

Oh! fly to chase these human wolves away.'

REFLECTIONS,

SUGGESTED BY HIS SITUATION.

BORN near the scene for Kenelm's* fate renown'd,
I take my plaintive reed, and range the grove,
And raise my lay, and bid the rocks resound
The savage force of empire and of love.
Fast by the centre of yon various wild,

Where spreading oaks embower a Gothic fane, Kendrida's arts a brother's youth beguil'd;

There nature urg'd her tenderest pleas in vain.
Soft o'er his birth, and o'er his infant hours,
The' ambitious maid could every care employ ;
Then with assiduous fondness cropt the flow'rs,
To deck the cradle of the princely boy.

But soon the bosom's pleasing calm is flown;
Love fires her breast; the sultry passions rise:
A favour'd lover seeks the Mercian throne,
And views her Kenelm with a rival's eyes.

How kind were Fortune! ah, how just were Fate!
Would Fate or Fortune Mercia's heir remove!
How sweet to revel on the couch of state!
To crown at once her lover and her love!
See, garnish'd for the chase, the fraudful maid
To these lone hills direct his devious way;
The youth, all prone, the sister-guide obey'd,
Ill-fated youth! himself the destin❜d prey.

* Kenelm, in the Saxon heptarchy, was heir to the kingdom of Mercia; but being very young at his father's death, was, by the artifices of his sister and her lover, deprived of his crown and life together. The body was found in a piece of ground near the top of Clent Hill, exactly facing Mr. Shenstone's house, near which place a church was afterwards erected to his memory, still used for divine worship, and called St. Kenelm's. See Plot's History of Staffordshire.

But now, nor shaggy hill nor pathless plain
Forms the lone refuge of the silvan game,
Since Lyttelton has crown'd the sweet domain
With softer pleasures and with fairer fame.
Where the rough bowman urg'd his headlong steed,
Immortal bards, a polish'd race, retire; [succeed
And where hoarse scream'd the strepent horn,
The melting graces of no vulgar lyre.

See Thomson, loitering near some limpid well,
For Britain's friend the verdant wreath prepare!
Or, studious of revolving seasons, tell

How peerless Lucia made all seasons fair! See *** from civic garlands fly,

And in these groves indulge his tuneful vein! Or from yon summit, with a guardian's eye,

Observe how Freedom's hand attires the plain ! Here Pope!-ah, never must that towering mind To his lov'd haunts or dearer friend return! What art, what friendships! oh, what fame resign'd! -In yonder glade I trace his mournful urn. Where is the breast can rage or hate retain,

And these glad streams and smiling lawns behold? Where is the breast can hear the woodland strain, And think fair Freedom well exchang'd for gold? Through these soft shades delighted let me stray, While o'er my head forgotten suns descend! Through these dear vallies bend my casual way, Till setting life a total shade extend!

Here far from courts, and void of pompous cares,
I'll muse how much I owe mine humbler fate;
Or shrink to find how much Ambition dares,

To shine in anguish, and to grieve in state!
YOL. XXIV.
I

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