Around the pile his well-earn'd trophies wave,
And a whole people's forrow wet his grave!
This the true mourning for the hero's fall,
Not the parade of pompous funeral.
Yet fhall thefe honours and his deeds infpire
In future embryo chiefs the foldier's fire;
Their little breafts the facred flame fhall own,
Shall beat for honour and demand renown.
Yet better omen'd to return,
Where joyful nations hail the finish'd war;
While as the trophies glitter from afar,
They throng a triumph-not bedew an urn!
Yet Britain, to her fartheft times,
Where'er her fons may war in other climes,
Th' Egyptian hero's name from fate shall save,
Rank'd with the foremost of her great and brave!
Oh! were the lyre by hands more artful ftrung,
And his great deeds in ftrains as forceful sung,
Her latest children on the theme might dwell,
And from the favour'd verfe delight to tell,
Where matchlefs courage art and force defied,
And how the British fought when Abercromby died !
June 26.
BY HARRIET WALKER.
OH why, Britannia, while thy heart beats high,
And triumph fits exulting in thine eye,
Why does thy breaft with tender fadness glow?
Why droops that wreath of cyprefs on thy brow?
Why are thy tears on thofe green laurels fhed,
Thy hand had twin'd for Abercromby's head?
Why mingled with thy fighs a Biffet's name?
So dear to valour-though fo young in fame!
Ah! in the grief that clouds thy beauteous face,
The vet'ran's greatnefs, and his death I trace.
Greatly he fought-to guard his country's claim,
And by his prowess gain'd her lasting fame.
Greatly he fought-nor felt the fatal wound,
But fought the conflict moft where danger frown'd,
Triumph'd and died, the brightest, pureft ftar,
That ever funk beneath the gloom of war.
Sunk, did I rafhly fay?'t was then he foar'd,
First truly feen, and seen to be ador❜d.
The body languifh'd-but the fpirit fhone,
Emitting beams of greatnefs all its own.
On Vict'ry's laurel'd couch he yields his breath,
And Glory gives him to the arms of Death.
His life the braveft, beft example gave,
And tears of gen'ral forrow bathe his grave.
But not with his great deeds expir'd the claim
Of British merit to tranfcendant fame.
Yet Sidney lives-through whose aspiring foul
The genuine ftreams of native courage roll.
Yet Sidney lives-on Honour's bofom rear'd,
To all the brave, and all the good endear'd.
His mild, yet dauntless heart, his glorious mind,
The great and gentle virtues have combin'd.
See where he ftands, on Glory's rapid tide,
His country's fav'rite, and his father's pride;
Around his head the beams of triumph play,
Fill his fine eye, and light the victor's way.
To-grace his youthful breaft, the fterit North
In wild profufion put her laurels forth;
And, richly twining round their vig'rous green,
The fpreading honours of the Eaft are seen.
Then turn, Britannia, thy dejected eyes,
From that lov'd fpot where Abercromby lies;
With cheerful hope thy darling champion fee,
Devote his prowefs and his blood to thee:
That hand which rais'd thy standard on the main,
Shall guard that ftandard on th' Egyptian plain,
Till thy fair face its radiant fmiles refume,
And on thy breaft the peaceful olive bloom.
Ye pow'rs benign! who round the warrior's head
The facred veil of kind protection fpread,
From ev'ry ill Britannia's darling fave,
Alike the hero of the land and wave.
Oh! may he live till filver honours grow
Around thofe temples where the laurels blow;
And as, when foftly dies the ev'ning gale,
The sweetest odours float along the vale;
So may his life expire, and leave at last
A train of glory where his fpirit pafs'd,
To guide fucceeding youth, like him to feel
The glow of mercy with the patriot's zeal,
In vict'ry's heat to clafp her gentle form,
And hear her whispers in the battle's storm.
O Sidney, brave and dear! the Muses' flame
Has foar'd to glory through thy cherish'd name;
Thy name alone the humble strain can raise,
Thy fmile will crown it with immortal praise.
That land, for wonders fam'd through ages past,
Has feen her proudeft glory in the last.
Not the vaft piles Egyptian labour rear'd,
Like British courage, make her name rever'd.
Long may her Nile upon his billows bear
The names to Egypt as to England dear-
Long may his waves with annual plenty flow,
And foon on either land the welcome olive blow!
INSCRIBED TO THE NOBLE LADY HIS VIRTUOUS WIDOW.
- [Suppofed by Mr. Capel Loft.].
HOW fhould a veteran wish to die?
Where fhould his scar-worn body lie?
Not upon the pale fick-bed,
Where weak-limb'd infants droop the head,
Where Apoplexy's temple fwims,
And coward Palfy lays his limbs,
And aged women yield their breath,
Without a ftruggle, unto death.
Who in his lifetime liv'd with glory,
He should die, and make a story,
By the foe-man's bloody hands,
Fighting 'mid the armed bands,
Where heaps of flain compofe a pile,
To darken all the land of Nile.
In age's honour, conquest's pride,
E'en fo great Abercromby died.
With Afric, Europe joins her groans,
And Malta keeps the hero's bones:
Malta, still famous for the tomb
Of brave Knights flain for Christendom.
I will not blame thy human tear,
O Baronefs of Aboukir !
There is a tear in virtue's eye,
Which pride of titles cannot dry;
Nor ftatelieft funeral exequies,
Nor a nation's plaudites;
Nor the tears of Christendom,
Wept upon thy dear Lord's tomb;
Nor thy blood and name augmented
With what the heralds have invented,
Of founding pedigree and state,
To foften o'er the wou. 's of Fate.
ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL KNOX, AND CAPTAIN JEMMET MAINWARING, LOST IN THE BABET IN THE WEST INDIES.
By HENRY JAMES PYE, Efq.
WHEN, 'mid the thunder of th' embattled field,
Their lives in Albion's caufe her warriors yield,
The never-dying breath of virtuous Fame
To glory confecrates each patriot name.
But fhall no wreath of honour crown the brave,
Untimely whelm'd beneath the ftormy wave?
Shall the firm veteran, who has dauntless flood
In many a fcene of caruage and of blood;
Shall the bold youth, who hoftile coafts explor'd,
Where louder than the furge the battle roar'd;
Cold in the oozy caverns of the deep,
Sung by no mufe, in dark oblivion fleep?
No! they fhall live to Fame, to Friendship dear-
Live ftill in Valour's figh, and Beauty's tear.
PROPOSED HISTORY OF WEEPING.
[From the Lady's Monthly Mufeum.].
AMONG all the fubjects which philofophers, and
moralifts have handled with fo much difcuffion and improvement, I cannot find that there exifts any effay or treatife on weeping or tears. My researches, however, on this fubject have been very extenfive; and I flatter myself that I have at length executed a work which will be of infinite importance to the present and to future generations. Yet knowing the many impediments literature has to ftruggle against from the price of paper and printing, I have very feriously weighed the confequences of embarking my fortune upon fo vaft an undertaking; and, by way of fome probable fecurity, I have deemed it most prudent to publifh the work by fubfcription. Of the Profpectus, therefore, 1 enclofe a copy, and hope you will favour me with a speedy infertion. I am, Sir, yours,
OF A HISTORY OF WEEPING,
From the Creation of EVE to the prefent Time: Compiled from the most authentic fources, and under the immediate EYE of fome ladies of the firft diftinction, who have made WEEPING their particular ftudy; and illuftrated with notes, annotations, and commentaries, by the moft eminent hands.
The whole to be comprifed in TEN VOLUMES FOLIO, or the overplus, if there fhould be any, given gratis. to fubfcribers.
Vol. r. Origin and antiquity of tears; state of tears before the flood.
|