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ON THE MONUMENT OF GENERAL WOLFE.

To the memory of
JAMES WOLFE,

Major-General and Commander in Chief of the
British Land forces

on an Expedition against Quebec,
who, after surmounting by ability and valour
all obstacles of art and nature,

was slain in the moment of victory on the 14th of September, 1759.

The King and Parliament of Great Britain.

dedicate this Monument.

Westminster Abbey.

AT WESTERHAM, KENT,

WHERE GENERAL WOLFE WAS BORN. ·

WHILE George in sorrow bows his laurel'd head,
And bids the artist grace the Soldier dead,
We raise no sculptur'd trophy to thy name,
Brave Youth! the fairest in the lists of fame.

Proud of thy birth, we boast th' auspicious year; Struck with thy fall, we shed the general tear: With humble grief inscribe one artless stone, And from thy matchless honour date our own.

TO THE MOON.

THOU silent Moon, that look'st so pale,
So much exhausted, and so faint,
Wandering over hill and dale,
Watching oft the kneeling saint-
Hearing his groans float on the gale—
No wonder thou art tir'd and pale.

Yet I have often seen thee bring

Thy beams o'er yon bare mountain's steep;
Then, with a smile, thy lustre fling
Full on the dark and roaring deep;

When the pilgrim's heart did fail,
And when near lost the tossing sail.

Sure that passing blush deceives;

For thou, fair nymph, art chaste and cold; Love our bosom seldom leaves;

But thou art of a diff'rent mould!

Hail, chaste queen! for ever hail!
And, prithee, look not quite so pale!

Yet stay-perhaps thou'st travell'd far,
Exulting in thy conscious light;
Till, as I fear, some youthful star

Hath spread his charms before thy sight;
And, when he found his arts prevail,
Hath left thee sick'ning, faint, and pale.

From an old MS.

TO A FRIEND REMONSTRATING.

AH! chide me not, if yet once more
I seek that love, long sought in vain ;
Nor blame me if, while I adore,
My vows are answer'd with disdain.

Yes, I confess, 'tis poor, 'tis weak
To droop, to sit with folded arms,
To bear a fever in my cheek,

And sorrow for an ingrate's charms.

Yet let me still my cares retain,

Still droop, with folded arms still sigh; Nor mock me that I still remain The willing captive of her eye.

;

For Love, with all his keenest smart,
Divine enchantment mingles still
And, while he fires the conquer'd heart,
He charms with many a pleasing thrill.

And tortur'd thus, thus doom'd to mourn, I still must feed this cherish'd grief, And could my peace once more return,

My heart would scorn the poor relief.

Then chide me not, if yet once more
I seek that love, long sought in vain;
Nor blame me if, while I adore,
My vows are answer'd with disdain !

Bayley's Poems.

MODERN SONNET TO AN OLD WIG.

HAIL thou! who ly'st so snug in this old box;
With sacred awe I bend before thy shrine!
Oh! 'tis not clos'd with glue, nor nails, nor locks,
And hence the bliss of viewing thee is mine.

Like my poor aunt, thou hast seen better days!
Well curl'd and powder'd, once it was thy lot
Balls to frequent, and masquerades, and plays,
And panorama's, and the Lord knows what!

Oh! thou hast heard e'en Madame Mara sing,
And oft-times visited my Lord Mayor's treat;
And once, at court, was notic'd by the King,
Thy form was so commodious, and neat..

Alas! what art thou now? a mere old mop!

With which our housemaid Nan, who hates a broom,

Dusts all the chambers in my little shop,

Then slily hides thee in this lumber room!.

Such is the fate of wigs! and mortals too!
After a few more years than thine are past,
The Turk, the Christian, Pagan, and the Jew,
Must all be shut up in a box at last!

Vain man! to talk so loud, and look so big! How small's the diff'rence 'twixt thee and a wig! How small, indeed! for speak the truth I must, Wigs turn to dusters, and man turns to dust.

The Spirit of Public Journals.

As

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

s now the shades of eve embrown The scenes where pensive poets rove, From care remote from envy's frown, The joys of inward calm I prove.

What holy strains around me swell!

No wildly rude tumultuous sound;
They fix the soul with magic spell,
Soft let me tread this favour'd ground.

Sweet is the gale that breathes the spring,
Sweet through the vale you winding stream,

Sweet is the note Love's warblers sing,
But sweeter Friendship's soothing theme.

Matthias.

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