.

Evening's Contemplation in a French Prison," (Valenciennes,) in imitation of Gray's "Elegy:" and it is but truth to state that its composition would have been no discredit to some of our more able poets.

Palmer had contracted a disease during his long confinement, which never forsook him. At the invasion of France by the Allies, the English prisoners were removed from depôt to depôt, lest they should fall into the hands of the conquering Powers, and be released. The repeated harassing marches Palmer underwent on these occasions, added to his already weak state of body, considerably hastened his decease. His severe illness prevented his removal to England for some time after the conclusion of the Peace. He died shortly after arriving in his native country, in the Naval Hospital at Deal, June 9th, 1814, after an absence of seven years.

For the gratification of our readers, we subjoin a few verses from the "

Elegy" in ques

tion; the reader must bear in mind, that the

scene is a French prison, and that the Poet is a British Sailor.

"Perhaps in 'durance vile' here may be plac'd
Some heart susceptive of poetic fire;

Hands which the sword of DUNCAN might have grac'd,
Or tun'd, like FALCONER, the living lyre.

But science on their birth refus'd to smile,
Nor gave th' instructive volume to their sight;
Their lives were destin'd to perpetual toil,
Unseen the rays of intellectual light.

Full many a song the tuneful bird of night
Warbles unheard amid some lonely place;
Full many a sun, of dazzling lustre bright,
Is lost in distance in the boundless space.

Some generous HOWARD, who, with godlike zeal,
Rov'd o'er the world to set the pris❜ner free,
May here the horrors of confinement feel,
Nor e'er again his home or country see.

Some gallant NELSON here unknown may rest
In cells ungenial, lost his soul of fire,
His mind of vigour, and that dauntless breast,
Danger could ne'er appal, nor labour tire."

*

JOSEPH ATKINSON

was a native of Ireland, and was Treasurer of the Ordnance, under the administration of the Earl of Moira. He was the intimate of Moore, Curran, and the rest of the galaxy of Irish genius; and was, himself, a poet of more than

ordinary ability, as the following jeu d'esprit, addressed to his friend Moore, on the birth of his third daughter, will evince:

"I'm sorry, dear Moore, there's a damp to your joy,
Nor think my old strain of mythology stupid,

When I say, that your wife had a right to a boy,
For Venus is nothing without a young Cupid.

But since Fate, the boon that you wish'd for, refuses,
By granting three girls to your happy embraces,
She but meant, while you wander'd abroad with the
Muses,

Your wife should be circled at home by the Graces!"

He died in Dublin, at the age of seventy-five, in October, 1818, and was sincerely regretted by all who knew him; being admired by the young for his conviviality, and respected by the aged for his benevolence and numerous good qualities.

The following beautiful lines, from the pen of his intimate, Moore, are intended to be engraved on his sepulchre:

"If ever lot was prosperously cast,

If ever life was like the lengthen'd flow
Of some sweet music, sweetness to the last,
'Twas his, who, mourn'd by many, sleeps below.

The sunny temper, bright where all is strife,
The simple heart that mocks at worldly wiles,
Light wit, that plays along the calm of life,
And stirs its languid surface into smiles.

Pure Charity, that comes not in a shower,
Sudden and loud, oppressing what it feeds;
But, like the dew, with gradual silent
power,
Felt in the bloom it leaves along the meads.

The happy grateful spirit that improves,

And brightens ev'ry gift by Fortune given
That, wander where it will, with those it loves,
Makes ev'ry place a home, and home a heaven!

All these were his-Oh! thou, who read'st this stone,
When for thyself, thy children, to the sky
Thou humbly prayest, ask this boon alone,
That ye like him may live, like him may die.”

HINDOO POETRY.

THE subjects of many slight popular poems among the Hindoos, are highly curious. Major Broughton, in his slight but pleasing volume on that subject, has preserved the two following, which we deem well worthy of being presented to our readers.

"The daughter of a certain Raja, young and beautiful, fell suddenly into a deep melancholy.

No art was left untried to effect a cure; plays and pantomimes were acted before her; the most ridiculous mimics and buffoons were sent for, and exhibited in her presence: but all in vain; the young Ranee could by no means be induced to smile. At length, a facetious Brahmun undertook to cure her; and, in the character of a jeweller, offered some fine pearls for sale. The following lines contain the Brahmun's speech, with its effect: the first hyperbole failed; but in the next attempt he was more successful.

'O say, within that coral cell

What mighty magic power can dwell;
That cheats my hopes, my sight misleads,
And makes my pearls seem coral beads!
In those black eyes now fury burns ;-
To crabs'-eyes all my coral turns!

But see, she smiles ;-my fears were vain
My worthless beads are pearls again.""

“A young girl, just blooming into youth, laments, in the following lines, the loss of the liberty and ease she enjoyed, while regarded only as a child, in her father's house; and complains of the restraint imposed upon her in that of her husband, to which she has now been removed. When she goes to draw water at the