FUGITIVE AND OCCASIONAL PIECES.

ON THE

DEATH OF DAVID RICARDO, Esq.

"FAREWELL! a long farewell!" Amidst mankind,
Of sterling virtue and of gifted mind,

How few could rival thee-how few could claim
Such splendid means, and yet so wise an aim-
How few, alas ! resist Ambition's wiles,
Or syren Pleasure's soft seductive smiles ?-
Amidst domestic joys content to move
In all the luxury of social love!

But call'd to higher objects, such as raise
Men's faults and failings to the general gaze,
'Twas thine, untempted by the arts of Fame,
To boast a pure and unpolluted name-

E'en those who thought thee wrong, will now attest
The single, simple purpose of thy breast.

Profound in science (Oh! could all we read
To ends so useful as thy writings lead)-
Though dead, thy works shall still instruction give,
Whilst Steuart, Montesquieu, and Smith shall live.

Thy weeping kindred round thy tomb shall kneel,
But who can paint the anguish which they feel,
If those, not link'd, alas! by ties so dear,
Would fondly imitate thy virtues here.

A MONODY

ON THE DEATH OF R. BLOOMFIELD, THE SUFFOLK bard.

BY W. FLETCHER.

SICILIAN maids, I woo ye once again,

And call ye from your rocks and heathy hills,
Your balsam breathing groves and flowery plain,
Your forest haunts and founts of bubbling rills.

I call ye from your desert shores,
Where the troubled ocean roars,
Lashing with its thousand waves,
Hoary cliffs and mould'ring caves;
From the forest dark and deep,
Where the hamadryads sleep,
Secure among their favour'd trees
Cradled by the western breeze;
Or from gently stealing brook,
Where the Naiads love to look,
From the couch whereon they lie,
On the lofty clear blue sky;
From spicy meads, or woodland dales,
Heathy plains, or grassy vales;
Where the shepherd tends his flock
From the height of some hoar rock,
Pouring o'er the speckled field
All the strains his pipe can yield;
Or from pastures gay and new,
Spangled with the morning dew;
Bank or brake, or shady springs,
Where the bird of evening sings,
Mingling with the water's chime
All its minstrelsy sublime.

I call ye forth, and bid ye hither bring
In either hand its simple offering:

Flowers, simple flowers, from blooming hedge-rows wild,

For he was nature's own and simplest child;

The humble daisy and the violet's bloom

Shall droop and wither o'er the poet's tomb;

With every bud and flow'ret of the vale,

That smiles o'er Nature's face, and scents the gale.

With ardent thirst the muse's victim drew
Full draughts of inspiration pure and true;
Then plumed his wings, and urged his upward flight
To move a poet in the worldling's sight:
How recompensed those worldlings little know
Who saw but his not him engulph'd in woe;
Small care had they to draw the veil aside
Which hid the man,-the poet they descried,
And satisfied with that, no further went
To learn the little form'd his poor content;
Nor further sought to cherish, whilst they praised
The being genius had so boldly raised;
But left him, when his glory had pass'd by,
To lean despair and cold obscurity.

Oh shame! inglorious age, to think the muse
But needs the pay of words, howe'er he sues,
By all the eloquence of verse and tears,
To gain a palliative for age's fears;
Ye part the poet from the man, and deem
The former all,-the latter but a dream;
But all is past, and he, the Bard, hath fled
To find repose among the lowly dead;
The heart that glow'd with feelings all his own,
Is still and senseless as the tablet stone;
His hands, that labour'd for his daily bread,
When verse and ease forsook his simple shed,
Are nerveless in their rest; whilst, unconfined,
To purer realms has flown his heavenly mind;
Leaving behind but perishable clay,

What Bloomfield was in life's eventful day.

Then strew, oh, strew his grave, ye maids of song,
With every tender blossom of the year;
Weave your wild roses cypress wreaths among,
And o'er your Minstrel drop the bitter tear.

Hither let Innocence her footsteps bend,
To sanctify the spot where genius lies,
And meek Devotion by her side attend,
To point him triumphing in happier skies.

For here he rests, within his silent grave,
All reckless of the cruel trials past;

Who sought, but found no human hand to save,
And meekly bow'd to meet the adverse blast.

The rosy links which bound him to the world
Grew heavier as they moulder'd in decay ;
The scroll of life, as slowly it unfurl'd,

But shew'd him sorrows for the future day.

His task was o'er-he panted to be gone,
In other realms to seek his Maker's face;
To bow before the just, the Holy One,

Reposing firmly on the promised grace.

Then strew, oh strew this hallow'd spot around,
And o'er his mem'ry drop the silent tear;
While from the stillness of the deep profound,
A whisper breathes in sad and solemn sound,
Your Bloomfield sleeps within his mansion here.
Woodbridge.

A PRAYER,

BY WILLIAM BECKFORD, ESQ.*

LIKE the low murmur of the secret stream
Which through dark alders winds its shaded way,
My suppliant voice is heard :-Ah! do not deem
That on vain toys I throw my hours away.

In the recesses of the forest vale,

On the wild mountain,-on the verdant sod,
Where the fresh breezes of the morn prevail,
I wander lonely, communing with God.

When the faint sickness of a wounded heart

Creeps in cold shudderings through my sinking frame, I turn to thee that holy peace impart

Which soothes the invokers of thy awful name.

O all-pervading Spirit !-sacred beam!

Parent of life and light!-Eternal Power!

Grant me through obvious clouds one transient gleam
Of thy bright essence in my dying hour!

From Mr Britton's Illustrations of Fonthill.

THE LAST DAY.

BY WILLIAM BECKFORD, ESQ.

HARK! heard ye not that deep, appalling sound?
Tremble! for lo, the vex'd affrighted ground
Heaves strong in dread convulsion-streams of fire
Burst from the vengeful sky-a voice of ire
Proclaims, "Ye guilty, wait your final doom:
No more the silent refuge of the tomb

Shall screen your crimes, your frailties. Conscience reigns,—
Earth needs no other sceptre ;—what remains
Beyond her fated limits dare not tell ;—
Eternal Justice! Judgment! Heaven! Hell!"

PROLOGUE

TO THE TRAGEDY OF CAIUS GRACCHUS.

SPOKEN BY MR TERRY.

WHERE is the man, who, as his thoughts survey
The days of Roman grandeur pass'd away—
Whose memory loves in reverence to dwell,
O'er minds that held the world within their spell,-
Calls up the mighty shadows from the tomb,
Whose names give immortality to Rome,—
But feels his mind in virtue's scale ascend,
Improved as patriot, husband, father, friend?

Sound but the name of everlasting Rome,
What glorious visions o'er the fancy come!
At their high deeds to gain a deathless name,
The dullest heart will wake, and pant for fame :
Their sacrifice of self, in virtue's cause,

From sternest eyes the tear of manhood draws;
And Rome has form'd, in many an after age,
The Hero, Poet, Orator, and Sage.

O'er ancient Rome, the Muse once more this night Plumes her wild pinions for a daring flight,