WHO DIED IN HER EIGHTEENTH YEAR, AFTER
A BEAM she was of pure and hallowed light,
Strayed from a source more radiant than the sun,
Condemned awhile to charm the wondering sight,
And bless the gloom-then in a moment gone.
As angels meek from heavenly climes exiled,
She bore her fate without one murmuring sigh,
Soft Resignation on her sorrow smiled,
And humble Patience languished in her eye.
The breeze of heaven upon a form so fair,
Since Time awaked it first, had never blown,
Like dreams that crowd Elysium's balmy air,
With every grace to wildest fancy known.
Yet could that form and beauty nought avail,
Nor doomed was she to lengthening years of joy;
For Health retreated on the' unconstant gale,
And, wooed with many a prayer, was harsh and coy.
I saw the purple light of youth decline
With fading lustre from the anxious view; The damask rose a drooping mourner pine, Beneath the drops of cold and mortal dew.
Yet soft and gentle moved the power of Fate,
Reluctance glistening in his cruel eye;
In smiles of love he couched his deadly hate,
And awed to strike-he turned-and knew not why.
Now on the grave in slumber where she lies,
The early floweret lifts its ruby crest:
The village youth oft slowly passing sighs,
"Light be the earth upon thy gentle breast."
On the Death of General Knox and Captain Jemmet Mainwaring, lost in the Babet, in the West Indies.
BY HENRY JAMES PYE, ESQ.
WHEN, mid the thunder of the embattled field,
Their lives in Albion's cause her warriors yield;
The never-dying breath of virtuous Fame,
To Glory consecrates each Patriot name.
But shall no wreath of honour crown the brave,
Untimely whelm'd beneath the stormy wave?
Shall the firm Veteran, who has dauntless stood
In many a scene of carnage and of blood;
Shall the bold youth, who hostile coasts explor'd,
Where louder than the surge the battle roar'd;
Cold in the oozy caverns of the deep,
Sung by no Muse in dark oblivion sleep?
No!-they shall live to Fame, to Friendship dear-
Live still in Valour's sigh, and Beauty's tear.
ON HIS BEAUTIFUL PAINTINGS IN THE EXHIBITION FOR THE YEAR 1800.
THOU, from whose energic pencil flows
All that in science charms, or nature glows!
WESTALL, from one who burns with kindred fires,
Accept the verse thy matchless art inspires.
True Genius, lighted at the solar ray *,
O'er the bright canvass pours a second day;
Collected in one strong effulgent stream,
On thine the rainbow's vivid glories beam!
The richest tints that ever deck'd the sky,
The sweetest flowers that ever charm'd the eye,
Fruits lovelier far than, in the tropic blaze,
Drink deep the ardent sun's maturing rays,
Breathe in thy master pencil's brilliant lines,
Where all the fire of genuine genius shines;
No brighter bower have Eastern climes survey'd,
Nor lovelier beauty in its fragrant shade.
The' historic Muse + unfolds her awful page,
Sublimely bold the pictur'd passions rage:
* No. 162. The bower of Pan, as described by Milton. No. 423. Queen Judith reciting to Alfred the Great, when a child, the songs of the bards, describing the heroic deeds of his
The royal dame in Alfred's infant soul
Bids the hot tide of kindling valour roll;
And while her lips, in high heroic verse,
His martial ancestors' proud deeds rehearse,
See in his dauntless ardent looks confess'd
The storm that agitates his boiling breast;
The lightnings from his brilliant eye that break,
The crimson flush revenge and glory wake.
On fire, his soul drinks in the wonderous tale,
He seems already cloth'd in radiant mail;
He grasps the ponderous spear, the blazon'd shield,
And stalks triumphant o'er the' ensanguin'd field.
Darken'd with crimes*, and bath'd in royal blood,
That round him flows a mighty crimson flood;
For what new victim to his boundless lust
Of tyrant sway does ravening Richard thirst?
Too well those tear-swoln eyes, Imperial Fair,
The fears that shake thy inmost soul declare;
Too well those features, with distraction wild,
While to thy bosom clings the martyr child!
Oh! from that hallow'd shrine, where angels bend,
And with expanded wings the place defend,
Let not thy charge those holy ruffians tear,
And to the grim devouring tiger bear.-
She yields, the ruthless harpies seize their
To dungeon glooms his tender limbs convey;
His screams resound o'er Thames' affrighted wave,
And in its bed he finds a watery grave.
* No. 429. Cardinal Bourchier, archbishop of Canterbury, and Rotherham, archbishop of York, endeavouring to persuade the queen, Elizabeth Grey, to suffer her son, the duke of York, to leave the sanctuary of Westminster, whither she had fled with her family from the power of the duke of Gloucester, afterwards Richard III.
From scenes of blood, where brooding horror
The Muse enraptur'd seeks the distant plains *, Where Health and Peace with village-swains reside, And sweet the hours in rural pastimes glide.
Again thy pencil wakes the vivid dies,
In all her charms bids vernal Nature rise;
Again the flowers their golden hue resume;
Again the fruits with purple radiance bloom;
Again the woods, the vales, the mountains, glow,
And Rubens' rainbow-tints unbounded flow!
What bold expressive lines,-what manly grace,
Adorn that honest peasant's ruddy face,
Who, half exhausted thro' the sultry day,
In the mild light of Phoebus' setting ray,
Exulting, to his homely cot returns,
While all the father in his bosom burns!
What heart-felt joys his blooming consort fill,
His lovely babe what infant raptures thrill,
As, gazing on the mother's rustic charms,
Round the dear child he glues his clasping arms!
Through Nature's bounds, beneath the pole or line,
Wherever oceans roll or planets shine,
No nobler object views applauding Jove,
More pure, more dignified, than wedded love;
And yonder cot more solid joy displays
Than palaces which gold and gems emblaze!
This tribute, WESTALL, to thy varied powers,
To Genius that so early-nobly-towers,
Is Britain's voice;-and all, who feel its flame,
Gaze with delight, and glory in thy fame.
*No. 67. The peasant's return to his family in the evening,
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