ELEGY XVI.

NIGHT.

BY MR. T.

SURROUNDED with the horrors of thy reign,
The aweful terrors of thy gloomy power,
My soul at large will now her woes complain,
And wail her miseries in this silent hour.-

Hold!-let me stop the trickling streams, which pour
Successive torrents down my flooded cheeks;

A woe like mine no common tears deplore-
'Tis Sorrow's self this briny language speaks!

Speaks in the broken accent of a sigh,

Speaks in the throbbing of a wretch's heart; Pours her strong rhetoric through the moisten'd eye, With thundering pathos, and a long-felt smart.

Ah!-see that shade which glides along my room! Steals by my sight in slow-stepp'd solemn pace, Clad from the clayey wardrobe of a tomb,

In trailing robes, which cover half the place!

I think I see a well-known visage there;

I think I see—but grief forbids the rest!
Yes! Yes! I see thee through the starting tear,
And feel thy presence on my panting breast.

Ah! dearest shade !-how oft has thy pleas'd eye
The scarce-form'd features of my frame survey'd ;
When yet my only language was a cry,

Which all my hungry, thirsty wants convey'd.

When yet from passion's swell my heart was free,
Nor knew the stimulative force of guile,
Laughing I've play'd upon thy dancing knee,
And thy lov'd face has join'd me in a smile.

How oft has sorrow dampened all thy breast,

When thou hast heard thy fondled infant weep!— How hast thou robb'd the lengthening night of rest, To beg descending blessings on his sleep!

Yes! thy whole soul has melted into prayer,
For streaming mercies on my infant head;
And shall my heart forget thy pious care,

Because, alas! thou 'rt mingled with the dead;

Thou silvering moon, whose pale complexion'd

beam

Has wander'd with me through the midnight air,
And lent a cheerless, cloud-bemoisten'd gleam,

To awe my anguish into dread despair ;

Ye groves, where oft my evening footsteps tread !
Lugubrious yews !-and weeping osiers! round
Where black Solemnity's sad couch is spread,
And dewy horrors clothe the hallow'd ground;

Witness the plainings of my bursting heart,

Declare the echoes of my soul-torn sighs; Those which could sadness to the Bless'd impart, These which have pierc'd beyond the vaulted skies.

Thou kind sustainer of my wearied head!
From thee I've sought an opiative repose,
And hop'd to still my sorrows on my bed,
Or load oblivion with a wretch's woes!

Thou dear companion of my softer hours,

When round thy neck I 've laid my nerveless arm; When grief has weaken'd all my manly powers, And stripp'd thy love of every grace to charm;

How have my sorrows trickled down thy breast,
And moisten'd all the bloom upon thy cheek;
While thou hast strove to sooth my soul to rest,
And gave that balm I knew not where to seek.

Supreme Director of this world of grief!

Unending Ruler of yon plains of light!

From thee alone descends the wish'd relief,

From thee that sun which cheers the gloom of night.

Let not compassion be forgot in heaven!

O hear the sinner! (often deaf to thee !) Hear him, O God! and speak his faults forgiven; Thou heart-felt penitence alone canst see!

And thou, bless'd spirit of my parent dead, Whose care has often check'd my erring feet! Be present with me in unbodied shade,

And still conduct me till I share thy seat!

Is my tongue silent in thy much-lov'd praise ?
Does it neglect the tributary strain;

Refuse the trophied poetry to raise,

And join its horrors to the weeping train ?

Then let unending Sadness spread her veil,
And wrap my spirit in eternal night;

Let horrid anguish all my nerves assail,

And the grave hide me from the beaming light?

Let dreadful judgment o'er my head,

Forbidding ev'n a distant hope of rest,

If I forget to reverence thy shade,

Or blot thy memory from my sadden'd breast!

ELEGY XVII.

SPRING.

BY MR. JOHN NICHOLS.

[Inscribed to the Author of the Foregoing. ]

STILL must, my friend, the briny torrent flow?
Still must the Muse a funeral dirge rehearse ?
Still breathe thy strains in energetic woe ?
Still filial duty claim the heart-felt verse?

No! change thy numbers! let the Sapphic lyre
Again invite the melting soul to peace;

With Lyric sweetness join Pindaric fire,
And emulate the prodigies of Greece !

Ah! dwell no longer on the woe-fraught page!
Cease for a while on Plato's strains to pore:
Let sprightlier themes thy studious thoughts engage,
And hail Parnassus in a lighter lore.

Blame not my counsel-'tis with kind intent-
Though dear the parent-terrible the stroke-
The mead she gain'd of years devoutly spent-
The chain, which stay'd her flight to Heaven, is
broke!