Thou, lamp! the gods benignly gave, To light a lover on his way; Thou, Moon! along the silv'ry wave,
Epitaph To The Memory Of A Worthy Man, The Rev. Mr. Sleep, Curate Of Kingswear Church, Devon, Whose Devotional Elocution Was Remarkably Impregnated With Soporific Qualities. Reader! since Parson Sleep is gone, And lies beneath yon humble stone,
When men exert their utmost pow'rs, To while away the tedious hours, With soothing Flatt'ry's art,
The sign of the house should be chang'd, I'll be sworn, Where enchanted we find so much beauty and grace; Then quick from the door let the lion be torn,
Whilst, in a dress that one might swear The whole was made of woven air, Pert Fashion spreads her senseless sway
Adieu! dear girl! if we are doom'd to part, Take with thee, take, the blessing of this heart, Due to thy gentle mind, and cultur'd sense;
With horror dumb, tho' guiltless, stood Beside his dying friend, The hapless wretch who made the blood
Go, little flutt'rer! seek thy feather'd loves, And leave a wretched mourner to his woe; Seek out the bow'rs of bliss, seek happier groves,
In days that long have glided by, Beneath keen Scotia's weeping sky, On many a hill of purple heath,
Written during a severe Winter. Why, trembling, silent, wand'rer! why, From me and Pity do you fly?
Oh! form'd to prompt the smile or tear, At once so sweet, yet so severe! As much for you as him I grieve;
Sweet guardian of the rosy cheek! Whene'er to thee I raise my hands Upon the mountain's breezy peak,
Once, for a palace, Painting left her grove, And taught her royal fav'rite's hand to trace A beauteous maiden's tale of little Love,
Oh! why does sorrow shade thy face, Where mind and beauty vie with grace? Say, dost thou for thy hero weep,
I look'd the fragrant garden round For what I thought would picture best Thy beauty and thy modesty;
Tell me what taught thee to display A choice so sweet, and yet so rare, To prize the modest buds of May
Dire were the horrors of that ruthless storm, That for young Lycid form'd a wat'ry grave; Oh! many wept to see his fainting form
[The Original in Dutch.] ORIGINAL. Hier rees die groote zon, en ging te Bazel onder!
Sweet stranger! tho' the merc'less storm Here sternly cast thy fainting form, What tho' no kindred hand was near
In Mousseau's sweet Arcadian dale Fair Delphine pours the plaintive strain; She charms the list'ning nightingale,
Much injur'd, Scotia! was thy genuine worth, When late the[A] surly Rambler wandered forth In brown[B] surtout, with ragged staff,
Upon its native pillow dear, The little slumb'rer finds repose; His fragrant breath eludes the ear -
When Time a mellowing tint has thrown O'er many a scene to mem'ry dear. It scatters round a charm, unknown
No sweeter verse did e'er inspire A kindred Muse with all its fire; Nor sweeter strains could Music lend,
Bless'd are the steps of Virtue's queen! Where'er she moves fresh roses bloom; And, when she droops, kind Nature pours
Still Summer lingers on these peaceful shores, Nor yet she quits her rose-erected bow'r; Tho' oft in many a dew-drop she explores
Reader! I do not wish to brag; But, to display Eliza's skill, I'd proudly be the vilest rag
Tho' leafless are the woods, tho' flow'rs no more, In beauty blushing, spread their fragrant store, Yet still 'tis sweet to quit the crowded scene,
Bless'd be thy slumbers, little love! Unconscious of the ills so near; May no rude noise thy dreams remote,
Rebecca was the fairest maid That on the Danube's borders play'd; And many a handsome nobleman
A wreath from an immortal bough Should deck that gen'rous victor's brow, Who hears his captive's grateful praise
Ah! if my voice is heard in vain, This fond, this falling, tear May yet thy dire intent restrain,
Nature's imperfect child, to whom The world is wrapt in viewless gloom, Can unresisted still impart
No gentleman of England now sits at home at ease, But emulates on shore the heroes of the seas; A common cause unites them, to meet the daring foe,
When storms on the ocean Create high emotion, It pleases the wish
Ah! hapless stranger! who, without a tear, Can this sad record of thy fate survey? No angry tempest laid thee breathless here,
- "they show an outward hideousness, And speak off half a dozen dang'rous words, How they might hurt their enemies, if they durst;
ORIGINAL. N'offrant qu'un coeur ' la Beaut', Nud comme la Verit',
Oh, Time! thy merits who can know? Thy real nature who discover? The absent lover calls thee slow, -
Emma! 'tis early time for thee To hear the sounds of minstrelsy, That breathe around the rosy shrine
Time, since thou gav'st this flow'r to me, Has often turn'd his glass of sand; Perchance 'tis now unknown to thee