To Memory's picture gave so pure a hue,
That drooping Fancy from my mind retir'd;
But soon reviv'd, she pierc'd the etherial blue,
And sought the place where his gold harp respir'd.
And did not Memory's hallow'd tablet bear,
In colours that the Muse could ne'er refine;
Another happy, late sojourner here,
Whose spirit now is rob'd in light divine;
Not slily to the honour'd picture stole,
Nor there the snowy locks of Age to wave;
But with an eye that brightly told thy soul,
And lips that grac'd the solemn truths they gave,
Thou Ann, whose spirit blest was pure on earth;
Sweet patient tutoress of tender youth,
Who blent with irksome lessons, guiltless Mirth,
And gave the darken'd mind the light of truth.
Thou whom Religon rais'd above this world,
Had yet a heart to feel Affliction's wound;
Not by the storms of selfish passion hurl'd,
Thy peace was in the peace of others found.
The tender offices of love to fill;
Infirmity and drooping Age to sooth;
In the young mind, the germs of vice to kill;
And Passion's gusts with gentle hand to smooth;
The secret mines of Knowledge to explore,
When night releas'd thee from thy active care,
In solitude thy Maker to adore,
And pour thy spotless soul in fervent prayer:
Such was thy life, to tell its happier close,
The trembling Muse delays with holy dread;
When with a spirit that devoutly rose,
Thy lips receiv'd the consecrated bread.
By the soft charm of poesy beguil'd,
Shall I at Fancy's call presume to say,
What blooming seraph o'er thy parting smil'd?
What strain allur'd thee from this world away?
Pure was thy life, and, in thy parting hour,
Each feature mark'd with sweet serenity;
O! what but virtue gave thy lips the power,
In death to say, that death was life to thee.
When Memory's picture bears the bright impress
Of Virtue, such, departed Ann, as thine;
It kindly comes, the youthful heart to bless,
And fill the soul with images divine.
As the pure graces of thy mind appear,
I feel the glow of emulation rise,
Nor breathe one sigh, nor shed one selfish tear,
That would recall thy spirit from the skies.
Imitated from the Spanish; and addressed to a young student.
A Flint and Steel, 'tis said, one day,
As in a tinder-box they lay,
Where, much against their inclination,
They long had held their habitation;
To pass the time and show their spirit,
Boasted their separate use and merit.
"Base wretch," the Flint in anger cried,
How dare you to approach my side?
Vile drudge, whose only worth must be
Your patient, vulgar industry.
How greater far a praise is mine;
I yield to man the spark divine,
That all-subduing heat supplies,
And light to cheer weak mortal's eyes.
I give, for noblest purpose made,
To mariners my useful aid;
And what would war's great science bc,
Without the aid derived from me?
The patient Steel thus calm replied,
And check'd the boaster's empty pride:
"Reflect that all thy noble fire,
Which stricken from thee we admire;
Unknown and hidden in thy breast,
Without my help must ever rest;
Despised and useless in the ground
Thou still wouldst lie, as thou wert found,
Till by my ill-requited aid,
Thy worth is to the world display'd."
Now, lest the application fail,
List to the moral of my tale.
The Flint's divine but latent spark,
The force of genius well may mark;
If the Steel's prototype you ask,
'Tis Industry's unwearied task.
Remember, then, ingenuous youth,
This plain, but oft forgotten truth,
The brightest talents still are dark,
Till application strikes the spark.
TO READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS.
WE are desired by the author of the prize poem to correct a mistake in one line, which reads thus:
"And kindness from election free;" for election read elation. This, we can inform the author, was a mistake in his manuscript. We are further desired to notice, that this was written previous to the deaths of our naval heroes, Burrows and Allen; and our triumph on lake Erie. This we are desired to mention, as the author was apprehensive he might be otherwise thought to have been insensible to such bravery and valour.
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