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CONTENTS.

of a Nobleman's Seat in

Cornwall. By Mr. Moore 43
VII. Pollio. Written in the

Wood near R----- Castle,
By W. Julius Mickle

47
VIII. The Chelsea Pensioner,

By Sir John Henry Moore,
Bart.

45
IX. The Debtor. By the Same 57

MONODIES.

1. Musaeus : To the Memory

of Mr. Pope. By the Rev.

W. Mason, M.A.

121

II. To the Memory of Mrs.

Margaret Woffington. Ву

Mr. John Hoole.

133

Ill. To the Memory of Garrick.

By R. B. Sheridan, Esq. 142

IV. The Vanity of Human Life.

By James Scott, D. D. 147

ELEGIES LOCAL, SYMPATHETIC, AND FUNEREAL.

ELEGY I.

THE

TOMB OF SHA KSPERE.

A

VISION.

BY JOHN GILBERT COOPER, ESQ.

What time the jocund rosie-bosom’d Hours

Led forth the train of PHOEBUS and the SPRING, And Zephyr mild profusely scatter'd flowers

On earth's green mantle from his musky wing,

The Morn unbarr'd th' ambrosial gates of light,

Westward the raven-pinion'd Darkness flew, The Landscape smil'd in vernal beauty bright,

And to their graves the sullen Ghosts withdrew.

The nightingale no longer swell'd her throat

With love-lorn plainings tremulous and slow, And on the wings of Silence ceas'd to float

The gurgling notes of her melodious woe:

The God of sleep mysterious visions led

In gay procession 'fore the mental eye ; And my free'd soul awhile her mansion filed,

To try her plumes for immortality.

Through fields of air, methought, I took my fight,

Through every clime, o’er every region pass’d, No paradise or ruin 'scap'd my sight,

HesPERIAN garden, or CIMMERIAN waste.

On Avon's banks I lit, whose streams appear
To wind with eddies fond round SHAKSPERE's

tomb,
The year's first feath'ry songsters warble near,

And viilets breathe, and earliest roses bloom.

Here Fancy sat, (her dewy fingers cold

Decking with flow'rets fresh th' unsullied sod,) And bath'd with tears the sad sepulchral mold,

Her fav’rite offspring's long and last abode.

Ah! what avails, she cry'd, a Poet's name?

Ah! what avails th’immortalizing breath To snatch from dumb Oblivion others fame?

My darling child here lies a prey to Death!

a

Let gentle OTWAY, white-rob’d Pity's priest,

From grief domestic teach the tears to flow, Or Southern captivate th’ impassion'd breast

With heart-felt sighs and sympathy of woe.

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