Fear to stop, and shame to fly. There confusion, terror's child, Conflict fierce, and ruin wild, Agony, that pants for breath, Despair and honourable death.

*

*

IN vain to me the smiling mornings shine,

And redd'ning Phoebus lifts his golden fire: The birds in vain their amorous descant join;

Or cheerful fields resume their green attire: These ears, alas! for other notes repine;

A different object do these eyes require; My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine; And in my breast the imperfect joys expire. Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer, And new-born pleasure brings to happier men: The fields to all their wonted tribute bear:

To warm their little loves the birds complain : I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear, And weep the more, because I weep in vain.

EPITAPH

ON MRS. JANE CLERKE.

LO! where this silent marble weeps,
A friend, a wife, a mother sleeps:
A heart, within whose sacred cell
The peaceful virtues loved to dwell.
Affection warm, and faith sincere,
And soft humanity were there.
In agony, in death resign'd,

She felt the wound she left behind;

Her infant image here below

Sits smiling on a father's woe:
Whom what awaits, while yet he strays
Along the lonely vale of days?
A pang, to secret sorrow dear;

A sigh; an unavailing tear;

Till Time shall every grief remove,
With life, with memory, and with love.

H

EPITAPH

ON SIR WILLIAM WILLIAMS.

HERE, foremost in the dangerous paths of fame, Young Williams fought for England's fair

renown;

His mind each Muse, each Grace adorn'd his frame, Nor Envy dared to view him with a frown.

At Aix, his voluntary sword he drew,

There first in blood his infant honour seal'd; From fortune, pleasure, science, love, he flew, And scorn'd repose when Britain took the field.

With eyes of flame, and cool undaunted breast,
Victor he stood on Belleisle's rocky steeps-
Ah, gallant youth! this marble tells the rest,

Where melancholy friendship bends, and weeps.

THE DEATH OF HOEL.

AN ODE.

HADI but the torrent's might,

With headlong rage and wild affright

Upon Deïra's squadrons hurl'd

To rush, and sweep them from the world!

Too, too secure in youthful pride,
By them, my friend, my Hoel, died,
Great Cian's son: of Madoc old
He ask'd no heaps of hoarded gold;
Alone in nature's wealth array'd,
He ask'd and had the lovely maid.

To Cattraeth's vale in glitt'ring row
Thrice two hundred warriors go:
Every warrior's manly neck
Chains of regal honour deck,
Wreath'd in many a golden link:
From the golden cup they drink
Nectar that the bees produce,
Or the grape's ecstatic juice.