"His Effigy the Nations shall behold
"On shining silver and on beamy gold;
"The precious gem, with holy fervour blest,
"In extacy shall to the lip be prest;

"To manly Worth, to blooming Beauty dear,
"Shall oft receive the lone, the tender tear;
66 Shall grace the gentle bosom of the Fair,
"And watch her slumbers with a Father's care;
"A guardian Ægis o'er her virtues spread,
"And on her days a pure effulgence shed.
"The magic pencil shall recall to life

My Hero's form amid the bloody strife; "There proud IBERIA shall with Gaul combine, "And there my Lions rend their dreadful line; "High in the front the god-like Chief shall glow, "And hurl his lightnings on the cowering Foe. "In mournful change, the Artist shall display "The dear-bought glories of his final day; "With many a group, in heavy woe around, "And many a tear, fast-streaming o'er his wound. "How sweetly sleeps the Warrior in his grave, "In death lamented by the WISE and BRAVE!— "When the frail canvas, faithless to its trust,

"Shall lose his form, and mingle with the dust, "When the time-moulder'd stone no more can tell "How brave he fought-he conquered and he fell, "Still as the years roll on, each year more bright, "His memory shall diffuse a broader light; "His great example still my Sons inspire, "And spread from age to age the Patriot fire: "The hoary Matron and the tender Maid, "In war, shall oft invoke his mighty shade! "Sires, yet unborn, his glories shall proclaim, "And Babes be taught to lisp his honour'd name.” SHEFFIELD, Nov. 11, 1805.

PROLOGUE TO THE CASTLE SPECTRE.

WRITTEN BY M. G. LEWIS, ESQ.

FAR from the haunts of men, of vice the foe,
The moon-struck child of genius and of woe,
Versed in each magic spell, and dear to fame,
A fair enchantress dwells, Romance her name.
She loathes the sun, or blazing taper's light:
The moon-beam'd landscape and tempestuous night
Alone she loves; and oft, with glimmering lamp,
Near graves new-open'd, or midst dungeons damp,
Drear forests, ruin'd aisles, and haunted towers,
Forlorn she roves, and raves away the hours!
Anon, when storms howl loud and lash the deep,
Desperate she climbs the sea-rock's beetling steep;
There wildly strikes her harp's fantastic strings,
Tells to the moon how grief her bosom wrings,
And while her strange song chaunts fictitious ills,
In wounded hearts Oblivion's balm distills.

A youth, who yet has lived enough to know
That life has thorns, and taste the cup of woe,
As late near Conway's time-bowed towers he stray'd,
Invok'd this bright enthusiast's magic aid.

His prayer was heard. With arms and bosom bare,
Eyes flashing fire, loose robes, and streaming hair,
Her heart all anguish, and her soul all flame,
Swift as her thoughts, the lovely maniac came!
High heav'd her breast, which struggling passions rent,
As prest to give some fear-fraught mystery vent:

And oft, with anxious glance and alter'd face,
Trembling with terror, she relaxed her pace,
And stopt! and listened!-Then with hurried tread
Onwards again she rush'd; yet backwards bent her head
As if from murderous swords or following fiends she fled

Soon as near Conway's walls her footsteps drew,
She bade the youth their ancient state renew ;
Eager he sped the falling towers to rear:
'Twas done, and fancy bore the fabric here.

Next choosing from great Shakspeare's comic school,
The gossip crone, gross friar, and gibing fool-
These, with a virgin fair and lover brave,

To our young author's care the enchantress gave;
But charged him, ere he bless'd the brave and fair,
To lay th' exulting villain's bosom bare,

And by the torments of his conscience show,
That prosperous vice is but triumphant woe!

The pleasing task, congenial to his soul;
Oft from his own sad thoughts our author stole :
Blest be his labours, if with like success
They soothe their sorrows whom I now address.
Beneath this dome, should some afflicted breast
Mourn slighted talents, or desert opprest,
False friendship, hopeless love, or faith betray'd;
Our author will esteem each toil o'er-paid,
If, while his muse exerts her livelier vein,
Or tells imagined woes in plaintive strain,
Her flights and fancies make one smile appear
On the pale cheek, where trickled late a tear;
Or if her fabled sorrows steal one groan,

Which else her hearers would have given their own:

* EPILOGUE TO THE CASTLE SPECTRE.

BY THE SAME.

My

OSMOND by this arrived at Charon's ferry,
honour saved, and dad alive and merry,
Hither I come the public doom to know,
But come not uncompell'd-the more's my woe!
E'en now, (oh! pity, friends, my hard mishap!)
My shoulder felt a Bow-street runner's tap,
Who, while I shook with fear in every limb,
Thus spoke, with accent stern and visage grim-

"Mistress!" quoth he, "to me it given in trust is, "To bring you straight before our larned Justice; "For, know, 'tis said, to-night, the whole town o'er, "You've kill'd one Osmond, alias Barrymore."

"The fellow's mad!" 'twas thus amaz'd I spoke; "Lord! Sir, I murdered Osmond for a joke. "This dagger, free from blood, will make it certain, "He died but till the prompter dropp'd the curtain ; "And now, well pleased to quit this scene of riot, "The man's gone home to sup in peace and quiet!"

Finding that all I said was said in vain,
And Townshend still his first design maintain,
I thought 'twere best to fly for shelter here,
And beg my generous friends to interfere.
But though the awkward nature of my case
May spread some slight confusion o'er my face,
No terrors awe my bosom, I'll assure ye;
Just is my cause, and English is my jury!

Spoken by Mrs. Jordan.

Besides, it must appear, on explanation,
How very ticklish was my situation,

And all perforce, his crimes when I relate,
Must own that Osmond well deserved his fate.
He heeded not papa's pathetic pleading;

He stabbed mama-which was extreme ill-breeding;
And at his feet for mercy when I sued,

The odious wretch, I vow, was downright rude.
Twice his bold hands my person dared to touch!
Twice in one day!-'Twas really once too much!
And therefore justly filled with virtuous ire,
To save my honour, and protect my sire,

I drew my knife, and in his bosom stuck it;
He fell, you clapped-and then he kicked the bucket!

So perish still the wretch, whose soul can know
Selfish delight, while causing other's woe;
Who blasts that joy, the sweetest God has given,
And makes an hell, where love would make an heaven!
Forbear, thou lawless libertine! nor seek
Forc'd favours on that pale averted cheek:
If thy warm kisses cost bright eyes one tear,
Kisses from loveliest lips are bought too dear→ ·
Unless those lips with thine keep playful measure,
And that sweet tear should be a tear of pleasure!

Now as for Osmond-at that villain's name
I feel reviving wrath my soul inflame!
And shall one short and sudden pang suffice
To clear so base a fault, so gross a vice?
No! To your bar, dear friends, for aid I fly!
Bid Osmond live again, again to die;
Nightly with plaudits loud his breath recall,
Nightly beneath my dagger see him fall,

Give him a thousand lives!-and let me take them all.