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Bloated with pride and gorg'd with luxury,
Lies huddled in the narrow house of death,
A sav'ry banquet for the glutton Worm!
How many heroes crimson'd o'er with blood,

A spectacle abhorred of their God;
How many kings of sable character,

Whom scarce this globe's vast limits could contain,
Clipt in the grave and happily forgot!

These we lament not !-but shall Genius die?
Is there no distance 'twixt the common mind,
The worldling's, cumber'd with its native clay:
And his who, shaking off this mortal coil,
Soars on the wings of high inspired thought,
Full of the emanation of his God?

There is: the philosophic sage feels this,
When cheer'd by Truth's bright rays, he penetrates
In quest of lone Obscurity's dun vale,
And tracing Science to her inmost depth,
Reveals to man the hidden cause of things.
The Patriot feels it, fir'd with just disdain
To see his country's senate sunk in vice,

And strains his lungs, confronting the foul tribe,
Boldly asserts an injur'd people's cause,

Spite of their venal bickerings!

And yet the Poet feels it greater still!

Say, oh ye amiable Sons of Song,

How vast the distance 'twixt your bliss and theirs?

Whether meek slaves to Pity's dewy eyes

Ye drop the tear upon your plaintive harps,
Melting in all the ecstacy of love;

Or wak'd to higher theme exalt your strains,
Coasting imagination's boundless field,
Ethereally sublime !—how far aloof

Sit those who glory in the minstrel's lore,

Glad to appreciate his genuine worth;
Belov'd enthusiasts! who delighted woo

The raptures flitting from the well swept string!
Theirs is the transport, pure as gifted bards,
As round their heads angelic visions float,
The sweet illusions of embody'd thought
Shook from ten thousand symphonies!
Dear to the Muse is ev'ry honor'd name
That calls to light the long forgotten Bard,
And gives the guerdon to his merit due;

Plucks the dark veil from Time's retentive grasp,
And plants eternal laurels on his tomb!

Finis.

T. J.

ART. DCCCLXXI.

Continuation of Auld Robin
Grey.

"THE spring it was past, it was simmer, nae mair,

And thinly were scatter'd the leaves in the air:

Oh winter, says Jenny, we kindly agree,

For the sun he looks wae, when he shines upon me.

Nae langer she grat, for her tears were a spent,
Despair it was come, and she thought it content:
She thought it content, but her cheek it look'd pale,
And she droop'd like the snow-drop broke down by the hail.

Her mither was vex'd, and her father was wae ;
What ails you, my bairn? they would oftentimes say;
Your wheel ye turn round, and ye come little speed,
Your hand it grows feeble, and weak is your thread.

She smil❜d, when she heard them, to banish their fear;
But sad looks the smile, that is seen through a tear,

And bitter the tear that is forc'd by a love,
Which virtue and honour can never approve.

Her faether was vex'd, and her mither was wae,
But dowie, and silent sat auld Robin Grey;
He spake not a word, and his cheek it grew lean,
Like the side of a brae, where the torrent had been.

Nae questions he ask'd her, concerning her health,
He look'd at her often, but aye 'twas by stealth;
Then his heart it grew grit, and often he feign'd,
To gang to the door, to see if it rain'd.

Syne he took to his bed, no physick he sought:
He ordered his neighbours around to be brought,
While Jenny supported his head in its place,
Her tears trickled down, and fell on his face.

Oh! kill me not, Jenny, said auld Robin Grey,
I have not deserv'd this-I have something to say:
I knew not, dear Jenny, I knew not your vow;
In mercy forgive me,-'twas I stole the cow.

I valued not crummy, I thought but of thee,
I thought it was her, stood between you and me,
While she fed your parents, oh! did nae ye say,
Ye never would marry that auld Robin Grey."

ART. DCCCLXXII.

Two short Trifles in Verse,

by the late Professor Porson.

THOUGH charades may be deemed too trifling for this work, yet surely a trifle from the late lamented Porson will be worth preserving,

I.

My first from the thief tho' your house it defends,
Like a slave or a cheat you abuse or despise ;
My second, tho' brief, yet alas comprehends

All the good, all the great, all the learn'd, all the wise.
Of my third I have little or nothing to say,

Except that it marks the departure of day.*

II.

My first is the lot, that is destin'd by fate
For my second to meet with in every state;
My third is by many philosophers reckon'd
To bring very often my first to my second. †

ART. DCCCLXXIII. Sonnet on the Neglect of Virtue.

SLEEPLESS as I lie tossing on my bed

Thro' half the midnight hours, while thro' my brain This vile world's base affairs revolve with pain, I sigh and weep to think, in Virtue's stead How mean Intrigue and Falsehood lift the head; And every palm that Valour ought to gain, All that the toils of Genius should sustain, Corruption's rav'nous appetite has fedd O state of sharp probation, where the good Meet disappointment, sad neglect, disgrace; And only in retreat can comfort find!

O wretched world, on whose affairs to brood,

Is woe and madness to my troubled mind!
Where thro' black clouds no gleam of hope I trace.

Nov. 2, 1808.

* Curfew.

+ Woman.

X.

ART. DCCCLXXIV. Sonnet on the Trade of Bookmaking, and its consequences.

AH! were the Muses more than but a name,
Those they would rescue from the harpy claws

Of sordid booksellers, who love their laws,
Rehearse their dulcet chants, and spread their flame.
Hence there is room for pity more than blame,
That loveliest POESY few votaries draws;
That few remain to guard the sacred cause
Of Art, Taste, Genius, Wisdom, Virtue, Fame :
That now to MAKE,* that high CREATIVE power
Which nam'd the POET, is become a trade;
Monsters obscene the hallow'd groves invade :
Ignorance, Folly, Vice, profane the bower,

Where all the Graces dwelt in laureate shade;

And blasts of senseless scorn the gentle bloom devour.

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O HAIL, ALFIERI!-To thy tragic tone

The GRECIAN BARDS, a band sublime appear,

* Makers, Poets. Spenser. Пov, Пoints, Plato. Though to create, in its proper sense, be incommunicable, yet the analogy is enlarging and exalted.

I prefer the arrangement of the Sonnet which marks the recurrence of the rhimes by correspondent indentings.

SIENNA 1783 Qualtro Tragedie. Quindci Traged: EDIMBORGO 1806. 3 vols. 12mo. Editore il Dottre: ANTONIO MONTUCCI.

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