ELEGY

ON A FRIEND KILLED IN THE WEST INDIES.

'Tis sad to linger in the church-yard lone,

Το

Where mouldering graves in dreary rows extend, pause at every rudely sculptur'd stone,

And read the name of a departed friend.

Yet o'er the youthful friend's untimely grave
"Tis sweet to pour the solitary tear;

And long the mourner haunts at fall of eve
The narrow house of him that once was dear.

The latest word, that feebly died away,
Revisits oft the ear in accents weak;
The latest aspect of the unbreathing clay,

The thin dew shining on the lifeless cheek.

The freezing crystal of the closing eye

In fancy's waking dreams revives again : And when our bosoms heave the deepest sigh, A mournful pleasure mingles with the pain.

While still, the glimmering beam of joy to cloud,
Returns anew the wakeful sense of woe;
Again we seem to lift the fancied shroud,
And view the sad procession moving slow.

But o'er young Henry's bier no tear shall fall,
Nor sad procession stretch its long array :

For him no friendly hand shall lift the pall,
Nor deck the greenwood turf that wraps his clay.

Mid Caribbs as the brinded panther fierce,

Far from his friends the youthful warrior fell; The field of battle was his trophied hearse ; His dirge the Indian whoop's funereal knell.

In youth he fell: so falls the western flower

Which gay at morn its purple petal rears, Till fainting in the noontide's sultry hour, Fades the fair blossom of an hundred years.

*The American aloe.

Unsooth'd by fame, to fond affection lost,

Beneath the palm the youthful warrior lies; And on the breeze from India's distant coast Sad fancy seems to hear his wafted sighs.

Not this the promise of thy vernal prime;
Mature of soul, and confident of fame,
Thy heart presag'd with chiefs of elder time

The sons of glory would record thy name.

And must thou sink forgotten in the clay?

Thy generous heart in dumb oblivion lie; Like the young star, that on its devious way

Shoots from its bright companions in the sky?

Ah! that this hand could strike the magic shell, And bid thy blighted laurel-leaves be green! Ah! that this voice in living strains could tell

The future ages what thou wouldst have been!

It must not be thine earthly course is run Sleep, sweetly sleep in Vincent's western isle! I hopeless waste beneath the eastern sun,

Nor can the charm of song the hours beguile.

Blest be the sanguine bier, for warriors meet,
When no slow-wasting pangs their youth consume,
They fearless wrap them in the winding-sheet,
And for their country proudly meet their doom.

And blest were I to yield this fleeting breath,
And proud to wrap me in a blood-stain❜d pall,
So I might stand on glory's field of death
'Mid mighty chiefs, and for my country fall.

L

DIRGE.

ON A YOUNG BOY.

Ан, vanish'd early from the view
Of every friend who lov'd thee dear!
Reluctant is the last adieu,

Sweet boy, we whisper round thy bier!

Now swift as morning beams shall fade Thy memory, as thou ne'er hadst been; The smile that round thy features play'd Forgotten, ere thy grave be green.

Thy mother wondering at the space,
So vacant now, where thou shouldst be,

In fancy views thy smiling face;

"Tis all that now remains of thee.