Thus the young poet, at the close of day,

Led by the magick of fome fairy song, • Thro' the dun umbrage winds his heedless way,

Nor hears the babbling brook that brawls along: Thus deathlefs Newton, deaf to Nature's cries,

• Would measure time and space, and travel round the skies.

When, juft expiring, hangs life's trembling light, • And fell disease strikes deep the deadly dart, Reafon and mem'ry burn with ardour bright, And gen'rous paffions warm the throbbing heart; Oft will the vig'rous foul in life's last stage, • With keenest relish taste pure mental joys. • Since the fierce efforts of distemper's rage

Nor bates her vigour, nor her pow'rs destroys, Say, shall her luftre death itself impair,

When in high noon fhe rides, then fets in dark despair?

Tho' through the heart no purple tide fhould flow,
No quiv'ring nerve fhould vibrate to the brain,

The mental pow'rs no mean dependence know,

Thought may furvive, and each fair paffion reign: • As when Lucina ends the pangful strife,

Lifts the young babe, and lights her lambent flams, • Some pow'rs new-waking hail the dawning life,

Some unfufpended live, unchang'd, the fame;

• So from our duft fresh faculties may bloom,
• Some pofthumous furvive, and triumph o'er the tcmb.

This fibrous frame by Nature's kindly law,

• Which gives each joy to keen sensation here, • O'er purer scenes of blifs the veil may draw,

And cloud Reflection's more exalted sphere. When Death's cold hand, with all-diffolving pow'r, Shall the close tie with friendly stroke unbind,

• Alike our mortal as our natal hour

May to new being raife the waking mind:

• On

• On Death's new genial day the foul may rife,

Born to fome higher life, and hail fome brighter skies.

The mofs-grown tree, that shrinks with rolling years,
The drooping flow'rs that die fo foon away,
Let not thy heart alarm with boding fears,
• Nor thy own ruin date from their decay:
The blushing rofe that breathes the balmy dew,
No pleafing tranfports of perception knows ;
The rev'rend oak, that circling springs renew,
• Thinks not, nor by long age experienc'd grows.
Thy fate and theirs confefs no kindred tie:

• Tho' their frail forms may fade, shall sense and reason die?

'Nor let life's ills, that in dire circle rage,

Steal from thy heaving breast thofe labour'd fighs; Thefe, the kind tutors of thy infant age,

Train the young pupil for the future skies: • Unfchool'd in early prime, in riper years

• Wretched and scorn'd still struts the bearded boy ; The tingling rod, bedew'd with briny tears,

• Shoots forth in graceful fruits of manly joy. The painful cares that vex the toilfome spring,

• Shall plenteous crops of bliss in life's last harvest bring.'

She ceas'd-and vanifh'd into fightless wind!

O'er my torn breaft alternate paffions sway:

Now Doubt, defponding, damps the wav'ring mind;
Now Hope, reviving, sheds her chearful ray.
Soon from the skies, in heav'nly white array'd,
Faith, to my fight reveal'd, fair cherub! ftood;
With life replete, the volume she display'd,
Seal'd with the ruddy ftains of crimson blood.
Each fear now farts away, as spectres fly,

When the fun's orient beam firft gilds the purple sky.

Meanwhile the faithful herald of the day,

The village cock, crows loud with trumpet fhrill *
The warbling lark foars high, and morning grey
Lifts her glad forehead o'er the cloud-wrapt hill:
Nature's wild mufick fills the vocal vale;

The bleating flocks that bite the dewy ground,
The lowing herds that graze the woodland dale,
And cavern'd echo, fwell the chearful found.
Homeward I bend with clear unclouded mind,
Mix with the busy world, and leave each care behind.

ELE GY.

TO A FRIEND,

ON SOME SLIGHT OCCASION ESTRANGED FROM HIM

HE

BY W. SHENSTONE, ESQ.

EALTH to my friend, and many a chearful day! Around his feat may peaceful shades abide! Smooth flow the minutes, fraught with fmiles, away; And, till they crown our union, gently glide!

Ah, me! too swiftly fleets our vernal bloom!
Loft to our wonted friendship, loft to joy!
Soon may thy breast the cordial wish resume,
Ere wint❜ry doubt it's tender warmth destroy!

Say, were it ours, by Fortune's wild command,
By chance to meet beneath the Torrid Zone,
Wouldst thou, reject thy Damon's plighted hand?
Wouldst thou with fcorn thy once-lov'd friend difown?

Life is that stranger land, that alien clime;

Shall kindred fouls forego their focial claim?
Launch'd in the vaft abyfs of space and time,
Shall dark fufpicion quench the gen'rous flame?

Myriads of fouls, that knew one parent mould,
See fadly fever'd by the laws of Chance!
Myriads, in Time's perennial lift enroll'd,
Forbid by Fate to change one tranfient glance!

But we have met-where ills of ev'ry form,
Where paffions rage, and hurricanes defcend;
Say, shall we nurse the rage, assist the storm,
And guide them to the bofom-of a friend?

Yes, we have met-thro' rapine, fraud, and wrong
Might our joint aid the paths of peace explore!
Why leave thy friend amid the boift'rous throng,
Ere death divide us, and we part no more?

For, oh! pale Sickness warns thy friend away;
For me no more the vernal roses bloom!
I fee ftern Fate his ebon wand display,
And point the wither'd regions of the tomb.

Then the keen anguish from thine eye shall start,
Sad as thou follow'ft my untimely bier :
Fool that I was-if friends fo foon must part,
To let fufpicion intermix a fear !'

GRONGAR

GRONGAR HILL.

BY MR. DYER.

ILENT Nymph! with curious eye,
Who the purple ev'ning lie

On the mountain's lonely van,
Beyond the noise of busy man,
Painting fair the form of things,
While the yellow linnet fings,
Or the tuneful nightingale
Charms the foreft with her tale;
Come, with all thy various hues,
Come, and aid thy fifter Muse.
Now, while Phoebus, riding high,
Gives luftre to the land and fky,
Grongar Hill invites my song,
Draw the landscape bright and strong;
Grongar! in whofe moffy cells,
Sweetly mufing, Quiet dwells;
Grongar! in whofe filent fhade,
For the modeft Mufes made,
So oft I have, the ev'ning still,
At the fountain of a rill,
Sat upon a flow'ry bed,

With my hand beneath my head,

While ftray'd my eyes o'er Towy's flood,

Over mead and over wood,

From houfe to houfe, from hill to hill,
Till Contemplation had her fill.

About his chequer'd fides I wind,
And leave his brooks and meads behind;
And groves and grottoes, where I lay,
And vistoes shooting beams of day..