No private lofs, no clofe domeftic tye,
No partial grief I murmur all alone
I join a nation in the heart-felt figh,
And fpeak a people's forrow in my own.
What are the strokes that wound domestic rest,
That break the social bliss of humble life;
The fecret pangs that rack the faithful breast,
When falls the friend, the parent, or the wife :
To those that public forrows well bestow,
When patriot ashes fill the facred urn;
When nations confecrate the figh of woe,
And with united voice a people mourn ?

Come then, O come, our Britain's lofs deplore,
Let in this death each private ill be drown'd!
Our foldier, hero, conqu'ror is no more,
And every Briton feels his country's wound.
How patient He her martial fons to lead,
Amidst the fummer's fun, or winter's fnow:
How firm to act whate'er her voice decreed,
And deal quick vengeance on the distant foe!
Brave, not revengeful, cautious, not difmay'd,
His country's glory lab'ring in his thought;
How oft the field of death his eye furvey'd,
The stroke of death how oft his bofom fought!
Some duties on life's narrower scenes attend,
Some toils domeftic happiness must share;
Some pains await the fondnefs of a friend,
Each filial duty and parental care!

And fill to thefe the tribute due we give,
Their virtuous deeds in fongs of praife rehearse;
With humble reverence blefs them while they live,
And crown their graves with many a tender verse.
What then the duc defert when patriot zeal
Bids private cares to public labours yield;
When private virtue owns the common weal,
And meets her dangers in the fatal field ?

When torn from humbler scenes where life's long date
Feels but the flow decays of ling'ring age;
In diftant climes we dare an early fate,

From baneful skies, or war's more baneful rage?

Say then what tongue our country's lofs shall tell,
What pen fhall grace the tributary ftone,
That fhews her weeping fons how nobly fell
Her foldier, hero, patriot, friend, in one.

Tot

His country's glory fir'd him as he a
Her love ftill founded on his fault'ring b
O bless her arms! the falling conqu'ror cry
Heav'n heard, and victory adorn'd his death.

His deeds the conquer'd favage fhall relate,
While round his offspring ftands with wond'ring ear;
And while in frequent fighs they mourn his fate,
Shall bid them imitate the tale they hear.

Shall tell from diftant lands, o'er many a wave,
Where rules another fun, the warrior came;
"Sought for his country here an early grave,"
"And gave his life a tribute to her fame.

"Shall tell how death on every lake was feen,
* How each wood echo'd with the martial yell;
"How long war track'd with blood each fertile green,
"Till the proud city, with her conq'ror fell:

Like flow'rets iffuing from his patriot tomb,
"How peace and plenty then began to rife;"
"Each foreft, lake, and vale, more rich to bloom,
"And better times feem'd fraught with fairer fkies."
Come then, ye veterans, ye whom oft he led
To mighty conquefts o'er the num'rous foe;
Who lov'd him living, now bewail him dead;
The ftrain be folemn, and the march be flow.
With hoftile arms the victor's trophy place
High o'er the urn that holds his facred duft;
The tomb with many a hoftile ftandard grace,
And crown with many a laurel-wreath his buft.“
Ye matrons, virgins, babes of Britons born,
And you, the peace-delighting rural train ;
O come with flow'rs, the Briton's grave adorn,
Who kept war diftant from each British plain!
And come, ye bards, who feel the nobleft fire,
His deeds, his death in equal numbers tell;
A Theban's fate awaits the Theban lyre,
He fought, he conquer'd, and in conqueft fell!

1

Come all ye people, come and humbly bow,
Who mourn his death, his death-bought glory fhare ;
Amidst the fhouts of joy and fighs of woe,

Kneel at his fhrine, and give to heav'n this pray'r

"O Thou, who bad'ft him fall, with conqueft crown'd,
"Soon make the bloody pride of war to cease;
"Let him the proper facrifice be found,

For Britain's glory, and for Europe's peace!"
VOL. VI.

R

The

The SEQUESTERED BARD. An ELEGY. Occafioned by the Death of WILLIAM SHENSTONE, Esq.

LAD in a fable pall, how frowns the sky,

CLAD

In negro-darknefs o'er the vifto'd fcene:
Now fheeted sprights from reftlefs graves do fly,
And now they trip it o'er the twilight green.

Perhaps ftill mindful of their wonted home,"
Indulgent wait on dearest friends on earth,
In vehicles of air unseen they roam,

And oft frequent the place that gave them birth."
The well-tim'd aid of Vefper's twinkling urn,
Directs my steps to yonder time-ftruck tow'r,
There, as in fhort-liv'd paffion, oft I burn,
Thefe melancholy mufings thus I pour:

Full many a flow'ret blufhing to the fun,
That scents the sweetness of the eastern morn,
Inglorious oft its little life does run,

Nor once the bofom of the fair adorn :

Or near the bubbling of fome weeping ftream,
Oft its fequefter'd fweetnefs did it breathe,
Where the coy damfel fleeps in pleafing dream,
Or where the decent graves in briery order heave.
Poetic youths in many an unknown home,
Mufing in penfive wailings oft we find,
Perhaps the thymy heath they faunt'ring roam,
Or court in wayward ftrains the fleeting wind.

The chilling blafts of icy winter's froft,
Too oft the virgin primrose nip fevere,
And many a friend by envy's breath is loft,
Nor claims a tribute of a figh fincere.
How many Shakespears have there liv'd alone,
And Drydens, thankless in their poorer day!
And many a penfive Gray we've seen, unknown,
Who to the world has ftill refus'd his lay.

Haply, on Edgar's hallow'd lips, the fire
Of Dædal fancy might have charm'd the day:
Haply, the facred veh'mence of his lyre
Might chace the white-wing'd minutes faft away.

Yet

On the Death of Mrs. Bowes.

Written extempore on a card, in a great deal of company, Dec. 14, 1724, by Lady Mary Wortley Montague.

AIL happy bride, for thou art truly bleft!

HAIL

Three months of rapture, crown'd with endless rest.
Merit, like yours, was heaven's peculiar care,
You lov'd-yet tafted happiness fincere.

Το

you the fweets of love were only fhewn,
The fure fucceeding bitter dregs unknown;
You had not yet the fatal change deplor'd,
The tender lover, for the imperious lord:
Nor felt the pain that jealous fondness brings;
Nor felt the coldness, from poffeffion fprings.
Above your fex, diftinguish'd in your fate,
You trufted-yet experienced no deceit;
Soft were your hours, and wing'd with pleasure flew ;
No vain repentance gave a figh to you:
And if fuperior blifs heaven can bestow,
With fellow angels you enjoy it now.

An ELEGY. On the death of General WOLFE.
Et tumulum facite, et tumulo fuperaddite carmen.

BEGIN, begin the forrow-foothing theme,
Let grief pour forth her melancholy tale;
In plaintive murmurs join me every ftream,
In plaintive echoes answer every vale.

From fhouts of vict'ry and from fongs of pow'r,
From conqueft's joys the youths, the virgins fy;
Give to the dead one praife-devoted hour.
In many a maiden tear, and manly figh.
To laurel crowns the cypress garlands join,
And give his hov'ring fhade the plaintive fong;
Who round our brows bade vi&'ry's wreath to twine,
With vict'ry's fhout who bleft each joyful tongue.
What tho' not mine to wake the loud-ton'd ftring,
And paint the fcenes of blood in equal lays;
What tho' not mine the hero's worth to fing,
Not mine to give to virtue virtue's praife;
With uncouth rhime yet I may deck the grave,.
With honeft grief ev'n I may wet the bier;
And oft, where fleep the virtuous and the brave,
Give humble verfe, and drop the tender tear.

No

2

No private lofs, no clofe domeftic tye,
No partial grief I murmur all alone
I join a nation in the heart-felt figh,
And fpeak a people's forrow in my own.
What are the ftrokes that wound domestic rest,
That break the focial bliss of humble life;
The fecret pangs that rack the faithful breast,
When falls the friend, the parent, or the wife :
To those that public forrows well bestow,
When patriot ashes fill the facred urn;
When nations confecrate the figh of woe,
And with united voice a people mourn?

Come then, O come, our Britain's lofs deplore,
Let in this death each private ill be drown'd!
Our foldier, hero, conqu'ror is no more,
And every Briton feels his country's wound.
How patient He her martial fons to lead,
Amidst the fummer's fun, or winter's fnow:
How firm to act whate'er her voice decreed,
And deal quick vengeance on the distant foe!
Brave, not revengeful, cautious, not dismay'd,
His country's glory lab'ring in his thought;
How oft the field of death his eye furvey'd,
The stroke of death how oft his bosom fought!
Some duties on life's narrower scenes attend,
Some toils domeftic happiness muft fhare;
Some pains await the fondness of a friend,
Each filial duty and parental care!

And ftill to these the tribute due we give,
Their virtuous deeds in fongs of praife rehearse;
With humble reverence bless them while they live,
And crown their graves with many a tender verfe.
What then the due defert when patriot zeal
Bids private cares to public labours yield;
When private virtue owns the common weal,
And meets her dangers in the fatal field ?

When torn from humbler scenes where life's long date
Feels but the flow decays of ling'ring age;
In diftant climes we dare an early fate,

From baneful skies, or war's more baneful rage?

Say then what tongue our country's lofs fhall tell,
What pen fhall grace the tributary stone,
That fhews her weeping fons how nobly fell
Her foldier, hero, patriot, friend, in one.