Yet saw not danger; dangers he'd withstood,
Nor could she trace the fever in his blood:
His messmate's smil'd at flushings in his cheek,
And he too smil'd, but seldom would he speak;
For now he found the danger, felt the pain,
With grievous symptons he could not explain ;
Hope was awaken'd, as for home he sail'd,
But quickly sank, and never more prevail'd.
'He call'd his friend, and prefac'd with a sigh A lover's message, Thomas I must die: "Would I could see my Sally, and could rest "My throbbing temples on her faithful breast, "And gazing go!-if not, this trifle take, "And say till death I wore it for her sake; "Yes! I must die-blow on, sweet breeze, blow on! "Give me one look, before my life be gone,
"Oh! give me that, and let me not despair,
"One last fond look-and now repeat the prayer."
'He had his wish, had more; I will not paint The lover's meeting: she beheld him faint,With tender fears, she took a nearer view, Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew; He tried to smile, and, half succeeding, said, "Yes! I must die," and hope for ever fled.
'Still long she nurs❜d him; tender thoughts meantime Were interchang'd, and hopes and views sublime, To her he came to die, and every day
She took some portion of the dread away;
With him she pray'd, to him his Bible read,
Sooth'd the faint heart, and held the aching head :
She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer;
Apart she sighed; alone, she shed the tear;
Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave
Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave.
'One day he lighter seem'd, and they forgot
The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot;
They spoke with cheerfulness, and seem'd to think,
Yet said not so-"perhaps he will not sink :"
A sudden brightness in his look appear'd,
A sudden vigour in his voice was heard ;-
She had been reading in the Book of Prayer,
And led him forth, and plac'd him in his chair;
Lively he seem'd, and spoke of all he knew,
The friendly many, and the favourite few;
Nor one that day did he to mind recall,
But she has treasur'd, and she loves them all;
When in her way she meets them, they appear
Peculiar people—death has made them dear.
He nam'd his friend, but then his hand she prest,
And fondly whisper'd, "thou must go to rest;"
"I go," he said, but as he spoke, she found
His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound;
Then gaz'd affrighten'd; but she caught a last,
A dying look of love, and all was past!
'She placed a decent stone his Grave above,
Neatly engrav'd-an offering of her Love;
For that she wrought, for that forsook her bed,
Awake alike to duty and the dead;
She would have griev'd, had friends presum'd to spare The least assistance-'twas her proper care.
'Here will she come and on the grave will sit,
Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit;
But if observer pass, will take her round,
And careless seem, for she would not be found;
Then go again, and thus her hour employ,
While visions please her, and while woes destroy.
MONODY ON NELSON, PITT, and fox.
TO mute and to material things
New life revolving summer brings;
The genial call dead nature hears,
And in her glory re-appears.
But oh! my country's wintry state
What second spring shall renovate?
What powerful call shall bid arise
The buried warlike and the wise;
The mind that thought for Britain's weal,
The hand, that grasp'd the victor's steel?
The vernal sun.new life bestows
Even on the meanest flower that blows;
But vainly, vainly may he shine,
Where Glory weeps o'er NELSON's shrine;
And vainly pierce the solemn gloom,
That shrouds, O PITT, thy hallow'd tomb.
Deep graved in every British heart,
O never let those names depart!
Say to your sons,-Lo, here his grave,
Who victor died on Gadite wave;
To him, as to the burning levin,
Short, bright, résistless course was given;
Where'er his country's foes were found,
Was heard the fated thunder's sound,
Till burst the bolt on yonder shore,
Roll'd, blazed, destroy'd,—and was no more.
Nor mourn ye less his perish'd worth,
Who bade the conqueror go forth,
And launch'd that thunderbolt of war
On Egypt, Hafnia,* Trafalgar;
Who, born to guide such high emprize,
For Britains weal was early wise;
Alas! to whom the Almighty gave,
For Britain's sins, an early grave;
His worth, who, in his mightiest hour,
A bauble held the pride of power,
'Spurn'd at the sordid lust of pelf,
And serv'd his Albion for herself;
Who, when the frantic crowd amain
Strain'd at subjection's bursting rein,
O'er their wild mood full conquest gain'd,
The pride, he would not crush, restrain'd,
Shew'd their fierce zeal a worthier cause,
And brought the freeman's arm, to aid the freeman's laws.
Had'st thou but liv'd, though stripp'd of power, A watchman on the lonely tower,
Thy thrilling trump had roused the land,
When fraud or danger were at hand;
By thee, as by the beacon-light,
Our pilots had kept course aright;
As some proud column, though alone,
Thy strength had propp'd the tottering throne:
Now is the stately column broke,
The beacon-light is quench'd in smoke,
The trumpet's silver sound is still,
The warder silent on the hill!
Oh, think, how to his latest day,
When death, just hovering, claim'd his prey,
With Palinure's unalter'd mood,
Firm at his dangerous post he stood;
Each call for needful rest repell'd,
With dying hand the rudder held,
Till, in his fall, with fateful sway,
The steerage of the realm gave way!
Then, while on Britain's thousand plains,
One unpolluted church remains,
Whose peaceful bells ne'er sent around
The bloody tocsin's maddening sound,
But still, upon the hallow'd day,
Convoke the swains to praise and pray;
While faith and civil peace are dear,
Grace this cold marble with a tear,-
He, who preserved them, PITT, lies here!
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