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ODE TO MEMORY.

“How fondly he traces the days
“ That were hallow'd by virtue and truth!
“ How torn by remorse he surveys
“ The follies and errors of youth."

Morris.

SAY-Oh! say-mysterious Power!

Source of many a blissful hour,
Can our narrow instinct tell,

Whence thy more than wizard's spell ?

Which at midnight's gloom will rise

Like the worm that never dies ;"

And in Hecate's solemn reign,

Can usurp the subject brain.

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(Slumbʼring o’er the grave debate ;) Thou ! the aged Peer canst fire, And with Holland's name inspire.

Thou ! the soldier canst beguile,

Many a long and weary mile;
Musing still with fresh delight,
On some brave and hard won fight.

Thou ! canst charm the faded belle,

In retirement's deepest cell ;
With the conquests she once made,
When in youthful form array'd.

Thou ! in India's sun-burnt clime,

Soften’d by the hand of Time;

Canst each woodbined cot restore,

As the stormy billows roar.

In Calypso’s magic isle,

Sage Ulysses felt thy smile ;

Thou! poor Selkirk, once consolid,

Where the great Pacific rolld.

Thou! arrested Ormond's tear,

Weeping o'er his offspring's bier ;* Thou! at Rebec's fatal day;

Gilded Bayard's setting ray.t

* I would not exchange my dead son for any living one in Christendom."

Ormond on the Death of Lord Ossory. + See his answer to Bourbon, when mortally wounded at Rebec.

Robertson's Charles V. book iii.

ODE TO MEMORY.

111

Thou ! attir'd in vestal hue,

Cheerd intrepid Argyle's view; Thy soft whisper lulld each breath, 'Till his suff’rings clos’d in death.*

And when Heav'n ordains my turn,

From the fabled sisters urn,

Or in Age's wintry shade,
All our joys and objects fade.

As even Hope herself retires,

And her brilliant orb expires;

When of youth and friends bereft,
Like some lonely pilgrim left;

Oh! reflected in thy glass,
Let departed pleasures pass ;
'Till my spirit sinks to rest,
In the regions of the blest.

See Mr. Fox's Historical Work, chap. iii.

A SONNET.

“ Gaudet equis, canibusque,
“ Cereus in vitium flecti, monitoribus asper ;
“. Utilium tardus provisor, prodigus æris.”

Horat.

“ So the trousseau,' at last is prepar’d,

(Fair Belinda exclaims with a sigh ;) “And how can Lord Townley be spar'd ?”

Forms alone the desponding reply.

Yet 'ere the soft link has been tied,

Like the Gordian fable of old,

One moment, oh ! leave the sweet bride,

And our Benedict's portrait unfold.

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