ONAN'S name, my lay, rehearse,
Build to him the lofty verse,

Sacred tribute of the bard,

Verfe, the hero's fole reward.

As the flame's devouring force ;
As the whirlwind in its course;
As the thunder's fiery stroke,
Glancing on the shiver'd oak;
Did the fword of Conan mow
The crimson harvest of the foe.

K

SONNET

ON THE DEATH OF MR. RICHARD WEST.

N vain to me the fmiling mornings fhine,

And redd'ning Phoebus lifts his golden fire: The birds in vain their amorous defcant join;

Or cheerful fields refume their green attire:

These ears, alas! for other notes repine;
A different object do these eyes require :
My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine;
And in my breast the imperfect joys expire.
Yet morning fmiles the bufy race to cheer,

And new-born pleasure brings to happier men:
The fields to all their wonted tribute bear:

To warm their little loves the birds complain : I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear,

And weep the more, because I weep in vain.

EPITAPH ON MRS. JANE CLERKE.'

Ol where this filent marble weeps,

A friend, a wife, a mother fleeps:

A heart, within whofe facred cell
The peaceful virtues loved to dwell.

Affection warm, and faith fincere,

And foft humanity were there.

In agony, in death resign'd,2

She felt the wound fhe left behind,
Her infant image here below,

Sits fmiling on a father's woe:
Whom what awaits, while yet he strays

Along the lonely vale of days?
A pang, to fecret forrow dear;

A figh; an unavailing tear;

Till time shall every grief remove,

With life, with memory, and with love.