Lee roam'd, a wanderer, Otway begg'd his bread; Savage, whose fame shall live to future times, Died the sad victim of a parent's crimes.

Ah, what avails if all the Nine inspire,

With Shakespeare's nature, and with Milton's fire, If Poverty, with all her loathed train,

Usurp the spot where Taste and Genius reign? What boots it, if the soul be taught to soar From earth to heav'n-with eager eye t' explore Things only visible where Wisdom's light

Hath shone sublime-else veil'd from human

sight

If doom'd to feel Affliction's galling weight,
The scorn of villains and the frowns of fate?

Has Providence so mark'd the Poet's name
With bitterness, obscurity, and shame;

Op'd to his ardent view a fairy scene,

To render want more irksome, grief more keen?
Has Heav'n ordain'd the mind supremely blest.
By godlike genius rais'd above the rest,
Should perish, ere its tenement of clay
Hath gone to dust-should blaze and pass away?
O'tis a bitter truth, by none denied,

A truth that well may humble learned pride,
That reason, God's best gift, may feel a void,
Her sacred temple shook, though not destroy'd.

Such, Collins, was thy fate,* nor thine alone— Well may those walls that echo'd to thy groan Bear witness to the tale! till taught to rise, Thy soul expanding, sought her native skies, Found in religion that assur'd relief,

Strength for her faith, and solace for her grief.

Thanks to the gen'rous Muse! to her I owe
Much of Life's consolation here below-
Mark'd by misfortune even from the womb,
Thrice snatch'd, an early sufferer, from the tomb,
Once more unwilling to the world allied,

For had my fate been happier, I had died;
Much have I suffer'd, much endur'd from those
Whom envy, fraud, and dulness made my foes.
O how can I address thee! shall I blend
In thee, the kind protector, father, friend,
The faithful guardian of my earliest youth,
Whose deeds were virtue, and whose precepts truth?

* A beautiful monument has been erected by public subscription to the memory of Collins, in Chichester Cathedral. He is finely represented as just recovered from a wild fit of frenzy, and in a calm reclining posture, seeking refuge from his misfortunes in the divine consolations of the Gospel, while his Lyre and one of his productions lie neglected on the ground. Above are two beautiful figures of Love and Pity entwined in each other's arms.

No candour would blot out the treach'rous line,
Thou scourge,
thou bitter Scourge of me and mine!
Hast thou not read in God's most holy word,
And tremble at the sin thou hast incurr'd,
How lost is he, the basest, most accurs'd,
Of all the tribe of sinners stampt the worst,
Who robs the widow, or the widow's son,
And eats the orphan's bread—as thou hast done?
O could I burst the grave's oblivious gloom,
And call thy once lov'd Brother from the tomb,
If, rising from the earth, the dead should speak,
How would conviction blanch thy coward cheek,
Wring ev'ry nerve, and tell thy guilty heart,
How foully thou hast play'd a Brother's part!
For me, whate'er my fate, if good or ill,
May Heav'n decree a spotless conscience still,
Contentment and serenity of mind,

Though prone to sadness, still to all resign'd-
Resign'd-e'en now I wipe the filial tear,
For one long lost, yet still to mem'ry dear,
In the blest hope I hasten to that shore
Where we shall meet again, to part no more.

Yes, there's a charm amid severest woe, A secret charm that only poets know, That whispers to the Bard, his suff'rings pass'd, A glorious immortality at last!

P

Ah! who shall now resume the Censor's lyre, With honest zeal, and well-attemper'd fire; Pierce through dark error's gloom, bring Truth again,

And show mankind the beauties of her reign?
To curb the statesman's petulance and pride,
And send him truth and wisdom for his guide;
To tell some greedy pluralists, who teach,
'Twere well if priests would practise what they preach;
To stop the villain in his bold career,

And whisper Conscience, in the lawyer's ear;
To lead the wand'rer back, who went astray,
To show mankind the error of their way;
And work reform among this motley crew,
A modern Satirist has much to do.

'Tis well when Princes, who in earlier days Were dupes of ev'ry mean dependant's praise, And slaves to Folly, rais'd a nation's fears, Grow grave and wiser in succeeding years, And blushing for their sad misconduct past, Resume their native dignity at last! This England deeply felt in days of yore, And Heav'n perchance those days may soon restore, When the fifth Harry, peerless in renown, Did ever Prince so well deserve a crown? Gave to the world a lesson of his own,

Which prov'd his noblest title to the throne.

His youth was vicious, libertine, and low, His sports were vulgar, his companions soRevel and riot fill'd each noisy hour,

And Law retain'd its name, but lost its pow'r-
His sire (his tott'ring crown by murder won!)
Thought Heav'n had pour'd its vengeance in his son;
While Britain saw her future evils spring,
And trembled at the thought of such a King.

Vain fears, though just-no sooner was the crown Plac'd on his head, than, with an awful frown, He call'd the vagrant crew, and wiser grown, Reprov'd their follies much, but more his own; He bade them ev'ry former vice give o'er, Reform their lives, or see his face no more. To the wise servants of his Father's train He prov'd a friend, religion held her reign, -Law kept its pace with mercy, though severe; And only coward guilt had cause for fear. O'er foreign lands he spread his matchless fame, And haughty Gallia trembled at his name; Her captive King in English fetters bound, Her pride destroy'd and humbled to the ground.

Apply the tale-there yet may come a time,
(And now I only prophecy in rhyme,)
When such a prince, a prince of noble fire,
Shall bless our Isle, and bid the world admire :