But more respectful views th' historic sage,
Musing, these awful relics of decay,
That once a refuge form'd from hostile rage,
In HENRY'S and in EDWARD'S dubious day.

He pensive oft reviews the mighty dead,
That erst have trod this desolated ground;
Reflects how here unhappy SAL'SBURY bled,
When faction aim'd the death-dispensing wound.

Rest, gentle RIVERS! and ill-fated GRAY!
A flow'r or tear oft strews your humble grave,
Whom Envy slew, to pave Ambition's way,
And whom a Monarch wept in vain to save.

Ah! what avail'd th' alliance of a throne ?

The pomp of titles what, or pow'r rever'd ? Happier! to these the humble life unknown, With virtue honor'd, and by peace endear'd.

Had thus the sons of bleeding Britain thought,

When hapless here inglorious RICHARD lay, Yet many a prince, whose blood full dearly bought The shameful triumph of the long-fought day :

Yet many a hero, whose defeated hand

In death resign'd the well contested field,
Had in his offspring sav'd a sinking land,
The Tyrant's terror, and the Nation's shield.

Ill could the Muse indignant grief forbear,

Should Mem'ry trace her bleeding Country's woes; Ill could she count, without a bursting tear,

Th' inglorious triumphs of the vary'd Rose !

While YORK, with conquest and revenge elate,
Insulting, triumphs on St. Alban's plain,
Who views, nor pities HENRY's hapless fate,
Himself a captive, and his leaders slain ?

Ah prince! unequal to the toils of war,

To stem ambition, Faction's rage to quell ; Happier! from these had Fortune plac'd thee far, In some lone convent, or some peaceful cell.

For what avail'd that thy victorious queen
Repair'd the ruins of that dreadful day?
That vanquish'd YORK, on Wakefield's purple green,
Prostrate amidst the common slaughter lay:

In vain fair Vict❜ry beam'd the gladd'ning eye,
And, waving oft her golden pinions, smil'd;
Full soon the flatt'ring goddess meant to fly,
Full rightly deem'd unsteady Fortune's child.

Let Towton's field-but cease the dismal tale;
For much its horrors would the muse appall,
In softer strains suffice it to bewail

The Patriot's exile, or the Hero's fall.

Thus silver wharf, whose crystal-sparkling urn Reflects the brilliance of his blooming shore, Still, melancholy-mazing, seems to mourn,

But rolls, confus'd, a crimson wave no more.

ELEGY IV.

NETLEY ABBEY.

BY GEORGE KEATE, ESQ.

A

Halcyon Calm has lull'd the watʼry plain,

Th' unmoving canvass flags beside the Mast, The gliding Bark scarce cleaves th' unruffled main, Tho' fond Impatience bids each Zephyr haste.—

Such stillnesss yields the gen'ral hour of rest;
Such peaceful waftage to the Saint is giv❜n,
When, from Life's tumults hast'ning to be blest,
He meets the smile of unoffended Heav'n!

Now light upsprings the breeze, the sails unfold,
The ready Crew the fav'ring gale improve,
The Sun-bright Current flames with waving gold,

And each broad shore and forest seems to move.

I hail at last these Shades, this well-known Wood, That skirts with verdant slope the barren strand, Where NETLEY'S Ruins, bord'ring on the flood, Forlorn in melancholy Greatness stand.

How chang'd, alas! from that rever'd abode
Grac'd by proud Majesty in ancient days,
When Monks recluse these sacred pavements trod,
And taugh th' unletter'd World its MAKER's praise!

Now sunk, deserted, and with weeds o'ergrown,
Yon prostrate walls their harder fate bewail;
Low on the ground their topmost Spires are thrown,
Once friendly Marks to guide the wand'ring Sail.

The ivy now with rude luxuriance bends

Its tangled foliage through the cloister'd space, O'er the green Window's mould'ring height ascends, And fondly clasps it with a last embrace.

Where burn the gorgeous Altar's lasting fires?
Where frowns the dreadful sanctuary now?
No more Religion's awful flame aspires!
No more th' Asylum guards the fated brow!

No more shall Charity, with sparkling eyes
And smiles of Welcome, wide unfold the door,
Where Pity list'ning still to Nature's cries,

Befriends the Wretched, and relieves the Poor