English

Come idle urchin, treach'rous boy,
Thou dang'rous play-thing, transient joy:
Thy restless pinion hither bend,
Or on thy mother's dove descend;
Or on a fragrant gale repose,
Fresh from the bosom of a rose;
Or on a sun-beam hither hie,
Or bear thee on a balmy sigh!
Oh come, while yet th' impulse is warm,
To realize thy Proteus form,
Come, arm'd with all thy magic arts,
Thy quiver, arrows, bow and darts;
Come with thy legion of delusions,
Call up thy phalanx of illusions;

Embody all thy arch conceptions,

How shall the Muse her feeble verse impart,
Or speak the anguish of a Daughter's heart?
But oh! ere Death may chill the conscious lay,
(Lest honour'd Truth should seem Oblivion's prey)
'Tis fit the Muse thy gentle kindness rear'd,
Should pay one tribute to a friend rever'd! —
Tho' stung with follies, and with grief opprest,
Thy gen'rous kindness glows within my breast! —
Thy sweet benevolence, thy friendly worth,
Thy glowing eloquence, thy courteous mirth,
Thy spotless honour, thy ingenuous truth,

E, fornito l' mio tempo a mezzo gli anni.

Another year! — so soon, so rapid fled,
Already mingled with the countless dead;
Nor left of all its joys, its griefs behind,
A single wreck within my dormant mind;
That mind; still treasuring in its record page,
Each heartfelt scene of my progressive age;
Since first th'internal chaos gradual ran
Its course to order; — Reason first began
T'assume her rights, and embryotic thought
Gleam'd on my soul; — its pains, its blisses brought.

High o'er the summit of th' impetuous main,
Where billows beat, and tempests rage in vain,
A tow'ring structure rears its princely form,
And mocks the vengeance of the angry storm! —
No festive bow'rs shall Luxury here produce,
No gay resorts for Folly's trivial use;
No voice of Riot here shall shake the dome,
Nor wild Intemp'rance mocks the midnight gloom,
But Virtue mild, benignant, and sincere,
In sacred silence, keeps her empire here.
— Escap'd from toils, from grandeur, and from strife,

Soon falls the monumental bust,
The trophied pillar sinks to dust,
The marble arch and lofty tow'r
Submit to time's resistless pow'r;
The blood-stain'd laurels quickly fade,
The haughty victor's brows that shade;
But, in immortal verdure, bloom
The myrtle wreath that decks the poet's hallow'd tomb.

Fam'd Greece, of art and wealth the boast,
Where now is all thy splendor lost?
Thy domes that seem'd to threat the sky,
In undistinguish'd ruins ly;
Where stood the works of matchless hands

PARAPHRASED.

Now has th' Almighty Father, seated high
In ambient glories, from th' eternal throne
Vouchsas'd compassion, and th' afflictive power
Has broke whose iron sceptre long had bruis'd
The groaning nations. Now returning Peace,
Dove-ey'd, and rob'd in white, the blissful land
Deigns to re-visit; whilst beneath her steps
The soil, with civil slaughter oft' manur'd,
Pours forth abundant olives. Their high tops
The cedars wave, exulting o'er thy fall,
Whose steel from the tall monarch of the grove

When gracious Heav'n its precious gifts bestows,
Sense to discern, and Eloquence that glows;
And then its noblest office has design'd —
To teach, exhort, and edify mankind;
When on a summit, sacred, and divine,
(Where pure Religion rears her holy shrine)
The mortal stands — and ev'ry eye shall claim
Some vital spark of the celestial flame;
Oh! then should Vice, with guilty touch, presume
The sacred part of Virtue to assume;
Oh! should she dare, unhallow'd and profane,
T'approach that altar she beholds in vain!

Oh thou! whose mournful lyre can yield relief,
And still is faithful to the notes of grief!
Come pensive Muse! instruct me to reveal
What Nature's doom'd most exquisite to feel.
Teach me, oh plaintive Muse! in soothing strain,
To paint the object of a Mother's pain:
A Husband's poignant anguish to declare —
To paint the young, the virtuous, and the fair!
Snatch'd from those arms, that ever could enfold;
The melting eye, exulting to behold!
The ear that bless'd her, and the heart that knew —

How Blest are they, who once bewilder'd here,
In mild Devotion finish their career!
Tho' injur'd by the world, forlorn, opprest,
They hear a S AVIOUR'S Voice to give them rest;
And when the path of Life is safely trod,
Can trust in Him , and yield their Souls to God .

LAMENTING THE DEATH OF THE LATE

MARQUIS OF BLANDFORD

Ask not the cause why all the tuneful swains,
Who us'd to fill the vales with tender strains,
In deep despair neglect the warbling reed,
And all their bleating flocks refuse to feed:
Ask not why greens and flow'rs so late appear
To clothe the glebe, and deck the springing year;
Why sounds the lawn with loud laments and cries,
And swoln with tears to floods the riv'lets rise: