Let kindled Fancy view the glorious morn, When from the bursting graves the just shall rise, All Nature smiling, and by angels borne, Messiah's cross far blazing o'er the skies. ELEGY VIII. THE CHELSEA PENSIONER. BY SIR JOHN HENRY MOORE, BART. BENEATH that mouldering turret's gloomy shade, Where yonder pines their wide-spread branches wave, A gallant Veteran rests his weary head, And with him sleep his sorrows in the grave. No breathing art adorns the sacred ground, Scarce marks the spot where buried honor lies. Ah, what avails him, that in youth's gay prime From Europe's strand to Asia's sultry shore? How short the glory of the poor man's deeds! Yet though no plumed steeds, no sable car, Yet on the margin of the path-worn green, The thoughtless many, the misjudging croud, hour, May idolize the follies of the proud, Or bend submissive at the shrine of pow'r ; But with the chosen band, the manly few, -(Scorning the pageantry of pomp, and place) Though she, whose beauty's all-enchanting pow'r Whose charms could sooth reflection's sickening hour, Far from these dreary scenes for ever torn, Yet when emerging from the giddy throng, Here while the scenes of former bliss arise, (Sad source from whence these tears of anguish flow) Far from the sneering fool, or censuring wise, I nurse in solitude the seeds of woe -Deaf to the voice of pleasure, or of fame, Yet not from pity's milder influence free, E'en then, not unregardful of thy name, This aching breast shall heave one sigh for thee. ELEGY IX. THE DEBTOR. By the Same. CHILDREN of Affluence, hear a poor man's pray'r! O haste and free me from this dungeon's gloom; Let not the hand of comfortless despair Sink my grey hairs with sorrow to the tomb! Unus'd Compassion's tribute to demand, With clamorous din wake Charity's dull ear, Wring the slow aid from Pity's loitering hand, Weave the feign'd tale, or drop the ready tear. Far different thoughts employ'd my early hours, |